FRED    LOCKLEY 
RARE  WESTERN  BOOKS 

1 243  East  Stark  St. 
PORTLAND.      ORE. 


BANCROFT 
LIBRARY 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


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AUTOGRAPHS 

AND  MEMOIRS  OF  THE 

TELEGRAPH 


Bi/JeffW.  Hayes,  lS5'3-'^''' 


Author  of  "Tales  of  the  Sierras,*  Looking  Backward  at 
Portland,"  "Paradise  on  Earth,"  Etc. 


FIRST  EDITION 


Published  by 

THE  S.  F.  FINCH  PRINTING  COMPANY 

ADRIAN.  MICHIGAN 

1916 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/autographsmemoirOOhayerich 


UBRARr 


i 


9- 


PREFACE 


The  long  task  is  completed  and  my  labor  with  the 
"Autographs  and  Memoirs  of  the  Telegraph"  is  at  an 
end. 

The  work  has  not  been  irksome,  and  the  labor  has  at 
all  times  been  tempered  with  love,  which  lightened  the 
burden,  and  ofttimes  the  work  was  one  of  genuine  pleasure. 
Of  the  several  thousands  represented  in  my  publica- 
tion, I  have  personally  met  99  per  cent,  and  reading  their 
^  names  was  like  shaking  hands  with  old  friends. 

:h 

^  My  grateful  thanks  are  extended  to  Messrs.  Walter  P. 

^  Phillips,   Donald   McNicol,  Wm.  J.   Maguire,   Edwin  W. 

Collins,  L.  K.  Whitcomb  and  Edward  F.  Wach  for  valu- 
able contributions. 


The  book  will,  I  trust,  accomplish  my  double  object, 
viz.:  perpetuate  the  beautiful  penmanship  of  the  telegraph 
operator  and  cement  and  bind  the  telegraph  fraternity 
closer  together. 


If  I  have  accomplished  this  much,  I  will  feel  that  my 

THE  AUTHOR 


O  labor  has  not  been  in  vain 

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Dedicatory 


To  Cassius  Hamlin  White,  friend  of  my  boyhood  and 

companion  of  more  mature  ^ears,  patient,  loyal, 

and  considerate;  and  to  his  little  wife, 

Henrietta,  always  gentle,  always 

solicitous,  this  volume  is 

affectionately 

dedicated 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Poetry  of  the  Telegraph,  by  Donald  McNicol 1 

SECTION  I 
Sketches  of  Eastern  Stars,  by  Jeff  W.  Hayes 

What's  in  a  Name 13 

After  Many  Years    14 

Perspicuity  16 

Hattie  Zundell 18 

Too  Much  Steam 20 

Learning  the  Business 22 

Brealiing  a  Strilje 26 

Silence  is  Golden 30 

K.  C.  B 32 

An  Embryo  Artist 36 

Renewing  Old  Friendships 40 

The  Mysterious  700 41 

Without  Props,  by  W.  J.  Mayuire 43 

SECTION  II 
Stories  of  the  Sunny  South,  by  Jeff  W.  Hayes 

A  Traveling  Auditor's  Experience 53 

The  Flying  Squadron 54 

Take  Z.  Suda 61 

Lead  Me  to  It 62 

More  Lost  Opportunities 64 

A  Human  Duplex  65 

Texas  Sammy 66 

Obeying  Orders 68 

A  President's  Junketing  Trip 68 

Unbroken  Kules 70 

Inadequate  Cuspidors   72 

Bunker  Hill 73 

His  Prayer 74 

Ethelinda,  lyy  Walter  P.  Phillips 75 

SECTION  III 
Stories  of  the  Middle  West,  by  Jeff  W.  Hayes 

A  Night  of  Terror 81 

The  Old  Ogden  Office 82 

Sulphurious  Times 87 

"Old  Farmer"  Lawton 89 

Valuable  Relic 90 


INDEX  (Continued)                                  page 
Tom  Weller'8  Christmas  Present,  by  E.  W.  Collins 91 


SECTION  IV 
Tales  of  the  Sierras,  by  Jeff  W.  Hayes 

Along  the  Shore 95 

A  Governor  for  Fifteen  Minutes  Took  the  Bull  by  the  Horns 97 

A  Narrow  Escape 101 

Kidding  Los  Angeles 102 

Making  Opportunities 105 

An  Arizona  Banquet 106 

Supai    108 

You'd  Think  He  Was  Easy 110 


Songs  My  Mother  Sang,  by  Edgar  W.  Collins 113 

Valentine  Vox,  by  E.  W.  Collins 114 


SECTION  V 
Early  Days  of  the  Comstock,  by  Jeff  W.  Hayes 

Sand 119 

Early  Days  of  the  Comstock 126 

When  Gold  Hill  Was  a  Hummer 128 

"7  Times  7  am  42" 130 

Creating  a  New  Position 131 

An  Unparalleled  Case 136 

Candelaria 143 

The  Seven  Mounds '. 146 


Earthquakes  to  Order,  by  John  F.  Ledwidge 151 

Some  Class,  by  Edward  F.  Wach 153 

Handling  the  Force,  by  Thomas  M.  liagen 155 


SECTION  VI 
Stories  of  the  Far  Off  Pacific  Northwest,  by  Jeff  W.  Hayes 

A  Mother's  Love 1 59 

Enterprise  in  Emergency 161 

Kittle  Finn 164 

An  Unique  Order 171 

An  Animated  Sandwich 172 

Loyalty 175 

"Hunkie" 178 

I  ; 183 

After  Life's  Fitful  Fever 187 

A  Post  Mortem  Note : 191 

An  Hour  with  an  Old  Timer 192 

He  Never  Came  Back 195 

"Knifin'  de  Dough" 198 

"Pantsey"  Patterson 200 

Massalltoff 206 

A  Costly  Joke 207 


INDEX  (Continued)  page 

Enterprise,  by  Elmer  E.  Mallory 210 

Oregonian  Story 211 

A  First  Class  Man ; 212 

Seattle  True  to  "Totem-Pole" 214 

Beau  Brummel 214 

It  Pays  to  Stick  to  Your  Post 216 

Love 221 

Song  of  the  Daisies,  by  Evangeline  Hayes 222 

Out  Wliere  the  West  Begins,  by  Arthur  Chapman 223 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 

By  Donald  McNicol 

COLERIDGE  regarded  poetry  as  "the  blossom  and  fragrance 
of  all  human  knowledge,  human  thought,  human  passions, 
emotions,  language."  Of  course,  it  might  be  expected  that 
the  Masters  of  the  art  would  have  a  very  exalted  conception  of 
the  elegance  of  their  own  medium  of  expression ;  and,  whether 
or  not  the  average  work-a-day  individual  believes  himself  qual- 
ified to  harvest  the  sweets  contained  in  rhymed  reports,  un- 
questionably there  is  in  good  poetry  a  strong  appeal  to  the 
higher  instincts,  exercising  an  influence  which,  when  granted 
fertile  soil,  accomplishes  for  man  much  that  .is  desirable  in  the 
way  of  graceful  ideals. 

Most  callings  and  professions  of  long  standing  have  had 
their  sweet  singers — their  poets  laureate.  Kipling's  ballads  of 
the  barracks  have  endeared  him  to  the  rank  and  file  of  the 
British  army  during  two  generations.  The  sailors  of  the  sea, 
for  centuries,  have  had  their  poets.  The  miner  and  the  printer, 
the  cowboy  and  the  railroader,  have  each  had  poets  of  their  own 
especially  versed  in  the  trade  lore  of  these  various  vocations. 

It  is  a  noteworthy  fact  that  those  crafts  which  have  been 
able  to  pass  on  to  succeeding  generations  of  their  ilk  a  heritage 
of  legendary  lore — a  folk  literature^ — have  ever  occupied  the 
highest  rank  in  the  family  of  professions.  A  pride  in  the  achieve- 
ments and  honorable  traditions  of  one's  professional  forebears 
casts  cheering  rays  ahead  on  the  paths  of  toil  which  is  very 
helpful  in  making  each  day's  task  easier. 

The  telegraph,  in  its  inception,  had  identified  with  it  men  of 
a  high  order  of  literary  attainment.  Professor  Morse  was  an 
artist  of  international  reputation.  In  its  infancy  the  telegraph 
had  its  rough  spots  smoothed  away  by  the  genteel  and  gracious 
care  of  Ezra  Cornell,  later  the  founder  of  Cornell  University ; 
James  D.  Reid,  the  father  of  telegraph  literature ;  Tal.  P.  Shaff- 
ner,  a  versatile  writer  of  the  early  fifties;  Joseph  Henry,  the 
head  of  the  Smithsonian  Institution,  and  other  writers  of  note. 

Graduating  from  the  telegraph  key,  four  men  became  State 
Governors ;  three,  United  States  Senators ;  three.  Postmasters 
General,  and  fourteen  became  presidents  of  large  railroad  sys- 


2  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

terns.  Among  those  possessing  marked  literary  talent,  who  in 
their  youth  were  telegraphers,  might  be  mentioned:  James  El- 
verton,  publisher,  Philadelphia ;  Edward  Rosewater,  late  editor 
Omaha  "Bee" ;  R.  D.  Blumenfeld,  editor  London  "Express" ;  Guy 
Carleton,  author ;  George  Kennan,  author  and  traveler ;  B.  A. 
McNab,  editor  Montreal  "Star" ;  Frank  Munsey,  pubHsher ; 
George  V.  Hobart,  playwright;  John  B.  Taltavall,  publisher; 
Walter  P.  Phillips,  author  and  journalist ;  and  a  host  of  lesser 
Hghts,  who,  entering  newspaper  work,  carried  with  them  a  love 
for  the  music  of  the  wires,  which  contributed  materially  to  their 
success  as  members  of  the  fraternity  of  journalists. 

The  production  of  telegraph  poetry  has  in  a  sense  been 
epochal.  By  this  I  mean  that  the  best  poems  on  the  subject 
have  appeared  on  occasions  when  a  decided  advance  was  made 
in  the  appHcation  of  telegraphy  to  commercial  needs,  or  when 
some  stubborn  obstacle  has  been  overcome  by  telegraph  en- 
gineers. Most  of  the  verses  penned  on  these  occasions  are 
accessible  in  telegraphic  magazines  of  the  period,  or  in  historical 
works.  Naturally,  some  of  the  shorter  gems  have  been  lost  or 
are  extant  only  in  scrap-books,  which  rarely  see  the  light  of  day. 
Especially  this  is  true  of  the  many  jingles  which  have  been  writ- 
ten by  the  nomadic  and  itinerant  members  of  the  craft,  which  in 
most  cases  appeared  only  in  "log"  books  or  in  personal  letters. 

The  literary  ability  of  our  telegraphic  ancestors,  in  keeping 
with  their  times,  was  marked  by  a  scholar-like  erudition,  which 
enabled  them  to  produce  verse  comparing  favorably  with  that 
written  by  authors  whom  we  now  look  upon  as  the  Old  Masters 
of  rhyme.  Telegraph  writers  of  the  early  days  undoubtedly 
gained  inspiration  from  the  writings  of  contemporaries,  such  as 
Halleck,  Bryant,  Whittier,  Holmes,  Lowell  and  Saxe. 

Some  of  the  earHest  verses  with  the  telegraph  as  the  sub- 
ject were  written  by  James  D.  Reid,  the  first  superintendent  of  a 
commercial  telegraph  line.  Between  the  years  1846  and  1848 
Henry  V.  O'Reilly  built  lines  westward  from  Harrisburg,  Pa., 
and  throughout  the  southwest.  O'Reilly,  a  typical  "Yankee," 
circularized  the  territory  through  which  his  lines  extended,  the 
heading  of  one  advertisement  reading:  "Four  thousand  mile? 
already  up  and  thousands  more  under  contract."  Reid,  who  was 
blessed  with  a  keen  sense  of  humor,  upon  seeing  one  of  these 
circulars,  discovered  the  lilt  in  it,  which  prompted  him  to  write 
the  following  satirical  verses : 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH 


JOHN  B.  TALTAVALL 


THOMAS  R.  TALTAVALL 


DONALD  McNICOL 


JOSEPH  W.  LARISH 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


The  mystic  wire  is  in  the  air, 

It  winds   from  shore  to  shore, 
By  dark  Missouri's  turbid  tide, 

By  deep  Niagara's  roar. 
Boys!  bear  along  the  lightning  thong 

Down  the  0-hi-o. 
"Four  thousand  miles  already  up. 

And  thousands  more  to  go." 

Sink  the  poles,  boys,  firm  and  strong. 

Deep  and  close  together. 
Solder  the  joints  of  the  mystic  thong 

And  let  it  stand  forever! 
Shouting  still,  by  rock  and  rill, 

In  morning's  crimson  glow: 
"Four  thousand   miles  already  up, 

And  thousands  more  to  go." 

In  the  year  1848  four  verses  appeared  in  a  country  news- 
paper in  New  Jersey,  written  by  a  Pennsylvania-  clergyman. 
The  lines  evidently  were  inspired  by  Morse's  invention  of  the 
telegraph.     The  first  verse  reads : 

Along  the  smooth  and  slender  wires,  the  sleepless  heralds  run. 
Fast  as  the  clear  and  living  rays  go  streaming  from  the  sun; 
No  pearls  of  flashes,  heard  or  seen,  their  wondrous  flight  betray, 
And  yet  their  words  are  quickly  caught  in  cities  far  away. 

Upon  completion  of  the  laying  of  the  first  Atlantic  cable  by 
Cyrus  W.  Field  in  the  year  1858,  a  number  of  poems  commemo- 
rative of  the  event,  appeared  in  magazines  current  at  the  time. 
One  of  these,  entitled  "How  Cyrus  Laid  the  Cable,"  written  by 
John  G.  Saxe,  contained  twelve  verses,  the  following  being  the 
first,  sixth  and  twelfth: 

Come  listen  all  unto  my  song; 

It  is  no  silly  fable; 
'Tis  all  about  the  mighty  cord 

They  call  the  Atlantic  Cable. 

Twice  did  his  bravest  efforts  fail. 

And  yet  his  mind  was  stable, 
He  wa'n't  the  man  to  break  his  heart 

Because  he  broke  his  cable. 

And  may  we  honor  evermore 

The  manly,  bold,  and  stable, 
And  tell  our  sons,  to  make  them  brave, 

How  Cyrus  laid  the  cable. 

Shortly  after  the  introduction  of  the  telegraph,  Rossiter 
Johnson  wrote  a  seven  stanza  poem,  entitled  "The  Victory,"  the 
sixth  verse,  probably  the  best,  reading  as  follows : 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


But  one  morning  he  made  him  a  slender  wire, 

As  an  artist's  vision  took  life  and  form. 
While  he  drew  from  Heaven  the  strange,  fierce  fire 

That  reddens  the  edge  of  the  midnight  storm; 
And  he  carried  it  over  the  Mountain's  crest, 
And  dropped  it  into  the  Ocean's  breast: 
And  Science  proclaimed  from  shore  to  shore. 
That  Time  and  Space  ruled  man  no  more. 

The  following  verse  is  from  a  poem  which  appeared  in 
Reid's  "The  Telegraph  in  America,"  published  in  1877.  My  in- 
formation is  that  these  lines  were  written  by  Reid  about  the  year 
1850.  The  reader  will  undoubtedly  sense  the  applicability  of  the 
lines  to  wireless  telegraphy,  introduced  fifty  years  later.  The 
title  of  the  poem  appropriately  might  be  "The  Wireless" : 

Away!   Away!   through  the  sightless  air 

Stretch  forth  your  iron  thread, 
For  I  would  not  dim  my  sandals  fair 

With  the  dust  ye  tamely  tread! 
Aye,  rear  it  up  on  its  million  piers, 

Let  it  circle  the  world  around, 
And  the  journey  ye  make  in  a  hundred  years 

I'll  clear  at  a  single  bound. 

The  following  four  lines  are  from  a  short  poem  written  by 
Augustus  J.  H.  Duganne,  and  recited  by  him  during  the  celebra- 
tion in  New  York  of  the  laying  of  the  1858  cable : 

Lo!  the  sunbeam  limns  our  features;  Fire  and  Air  we  yoke  to  toil: 
Yea,  the  lightning  from  the  footstool  we  have  chained  in  hurtless  coil! 
Thou,  Oh  God,  o'er  Franklin  bending,  gave  to  him  the  electric  flame. 
And  with  cloven  tongues  exultant,   Morse  proclaimed  Thy  Holy  Name! 

The  following  three  verses  were  written  by  James  Clerk 
Maxwell  in  the  year  1859 — (In  the  early  days  of  submarine 
telegraphy  the  mirror  galvanometer  was  employed  as  a  receiv- 
ing instrument)  : 

The  Mirror  Galvanometer 

The  lamp-light  falls  on  blackened  walls. 

And  streams  through  narrow  perforations. 
The  long  beam  trails  o'er  paste-board  scales. 

With  slow  decaying  oscillations. 
Flow,  current,  flow,  set  the  quick  light-spot  flying; 

Flow,  current,  answer,  lightspot,  flashing,  quivering,  dying. 

Oh  look!  how  queer!  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  sharper  growing 
The  gliding  fire!  with  central  wire, 

The  fine  degrees  distinctly  showing. 
Swing,  magnet,  swing,  advancing  and  receding; 

Swing,  magnet;   Answer,  dearest,  What's  your  final  reading? 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


O  Love!  you  fail  to  read  the  scale 

Correct  to  tenths  of  a  division, 
To  mirror  Heaven  those  eyes  were  given, 

And  not  for  methods  of  precision. 
Break,  contact,  break,  set  the  free  light-spot  flying; 

Break,  contact,  rest  thee,  magnet,  swinging,  creeping,  dying. 

Another  of  the  Atlantic  Telegraph  poems  which  appeared 
in  1859  was  written  by  J.  G.  Whittier  and  contained  thirteen 
verses,  the  sixth,  eighth  and  tenth,  reading  as  follows : 

From  clime  to  clime,  from  shore  to  shore. 

Shall  thrill  the  magic  thread; 
The  new  Prometheus  steals  once  more. 

The  fire  that  wakes  the  dead! 

For  lo!  the  fall  of  ocean's  wall, 

Space  mocked,  and  time  outrun!  — 
And  round  the  world  the  thought  of  all 

Is  as  the  thought  of  one. 

Throb  on,  strong  pulse  of  thunder!   beat 

From  answering  beach  to  beach! 
Fuse  nations  in  thy  kindly  heat, 

And  melt  the  chains  of  each. 

The  following  poem,  entitled  *'The  Telegrapher's  Valen- 
tine," was  written  by  J.  C.  Maxwell,  in  the  year  i860: 

The  tendrils  of  my  soul  are  twined 

With  thine,  though  many  a  mile  apart, 
And  thine  in  close-coiled  circuits  wind 

Around  the  needle  of  my  heart. 

Constant  as  Daniel,  strong  as  Grove, 

Ebullient  through  its  depths  like  Smee, 
My  heart  pours  forth  its  tide  of  love. 

And  all  its  circuits  close  in  thee. 

0  tell  me,  when  along  the  line 

From  my  full  heart  the  message  flows, 
What  currents  are  induced  in  thine? 
One  click  from  thee  will  end  my  woes. 

Through  many  a  volt  the  weber  flew, 
And  clicked  this  answer  back  to  me; 

1  am  thy  farad  staunch  and  true, 
Charged  to  a  volt  with  love  for  thee. 

After  the  death  of  Professor  Morse,  which  occurred  on 
April  2nd,  1872,  a  number  of  poems  appeared  in  telegraph  and 
other  journals  pubhshed  at  the  time.  One  of  these,  by  Rosa 
Vertner  Jefferry,  of  Lexington,  Ky.,  appeared  in  the  "Journal 
of  the  Telegraph,"  April   15th,   1872.     Other  poems  which  ap- 


OF  THK  TELEGRAPH  7 

peared  at  the  same  time  were  written  by  A.  R.  Watson  and 
Henry  C.  Cooper.  The  last  verse  of  Mr.  Watson's  poem  is 
quoted  herewith: 

''But  was  he  Jove?     On  what  point  have  ye  hung 
So  fair  opinion  of  him?"     Did  not  these  hands 

Weave  the  enchanted  lightning  into  brands, 

Tongue  burthened  and  obedient,  that  have  strung 

A  zone  of  speech  around  the  world,  to  prove 

The  fame  of  him  who's  dead  there?    He  is  Jove. 

During  the  decade  beginning  with  the  year  1872,  the  tele- 
graph companies  had  on  their  pay-rolls  in  New  York  a  number 
of  young  men  who  were  destined  to  achieve  fame  and  distinction 
as  writers.  Among  these  were :  Joseph  W.  Larish  (pseud., 
Owton  A.  Flye)  ;  WilHam  Maver,  Jr.  (Witt  Master)  ;  Thos.  R. 
Taltavall,  the  present  editor  of  Telegraph  Age;  P.  B.  Delaney, 
Walter  P.  Phillips  (John  Oakum),  Thos.  C.  Noble,  W.  J.  John- 
ston, J.  F.  Howell,  and  Charles  N.  Hood^ — this  period,  in  fact, 
was  the  golden  era  of  telegraph  Uterature. 

The  three  verses  following  were  found  writen  on  the  fly- 
leaf of  a  wire  chief's  log  book  in  the  Western  Union  main  office, 
New  York,  in  the  year  1873 : 

When  men  are  sent  out  on  the  wires. 
Armed  with  a  coil,  and  spurs,  and  pliers; 
With  care,  the  chiefs  will  in  this  tome. 
Note  when  they  start,  and  when  come  home. 

If  e'er  they  should  o'erstay  their  time, 
And  make  the  claim,  they  had  to  climb 
The  largest  pole  within  the  town, 
The  chiefs  will  also  note  this  down. 

But  if  the  fragrance  of  the  cup. 
Should  spoil  their  tale  of  climbing  up, 
The  same  will  on  the  record  go. 
That  Captain  Mac  Intosh  may  know. 

When  the  periodical  "Telegraphica"  suspended  pubHcation 
in  the  latter  part  of  the  year  1873,  two  blank  large  record  books 
were  set  aside  in  the  New  York  main  office,  bearing  the  title 
"Telegraphica's  Ghost,"  to  serve  as  depositories  for  the  occa- 
sional vagrant  melodies  which  came  to  the  surface  and  were 
deemed  worthy  of  preservation.  In  the  two  volumes  a  dozen  or 
more  poems  of  better  than  ordinary  merit  were  inscribed  by 
hand.  Most  of  these  contributions  are  too  long  to  include  in 
this  symposium,  and  the  quotations  which  follow,  while  perhaps 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


not  the  best  from  a  literary  standpoint,  are  the  most  available 
for  reproduction  here : 

En  Rapport 

A  maiden  sits  'neath  northern  skies 
With  pale  pink  cheeks  and  downcast  eyes; 
Her  dainty  hand  flies  to  and  fro, 
A  snow-flake  o'er  a  bank  of  snow, 
While  business  gleams  along  the  hooks, 
Then  hies  away  to  far-off  nooks, 

Never  bird  or  bee  so  busy 

As  this  mildly  beaming  Lizzie! 

A  youth  in  Sunland  strikes  the  wire, 
And  madly  scatters  Southern  fire! 
Then,  with  prick'd  ear  and  eagle  eye 
Takes  in  the  sharp,  quick  sparks  that  fly. 
A  streak  of  shining,  flashing  light 
From  our  own  land  of  hidden  might! 

The  pen-sive  youth  grows  faint  and  dizzy. 

The  blinding  light  is  sent  by  Lizzie! 

As  prelude  to  another  "rush" 

Lo!  an  electric  smile  and  blush. 

And  thoughts  that  wreath  her  rosy  lips 

Go  flashing  from  her  finger  tips; 

While  he,  thro'  distance,  casts  out  fear, 

Doesn't  Chivalry  wish  'twere  his  eh? 
And  wildly  flashes  back:   "my  dear!" 

O!   This  Northern  blooming  Lizzie, 


Downey's  Lament 

If  I  say  it  meself,  shure  an'  'tis  no  flatthery, 

I  do  thry  an'  make  out  to  kape  a  clane  batthery; 

But  there's  some  av  these  fellers  that  works  th'  way  wire» 

Talks  about  "locals"  in  a  way  I  admires. 

Now,  some  av  these  here  op'raters,  Lor'  bless  yer  sowl, 
Don'  know  a  good  local  from  a  bricklayer's  trowl. 
But  they  come  to  me  mornins  wid  "Mike,  look  ye  here! 
Cud  a  man  take  from  this,  lest  he  had  a  tin  ear?" 

I  looks  at  th'  local  an'  phat  does  yez  think? 

Faith,  there's  nary  corrode  on  the  copper  nor  zinc; 

There's  nawthin  at  all  to  era-ate  any  bother, 

And  jars  and  th'  porous  cups  well  filled  wid  wather. 

Av  coorse,  I'm  ixpicted  th'  battherys  to  clane 
An'  phat  shud  I  know  if  their  sounder  machane, 
Was  broken,  or  bad  ohms,  or  divil  knows  phat; 
But  thim  by's  are  th'  ones  to  make  me  redhot. 

Well,  th'  only  thing  I  do  to  get  me  relate 

Is  to  skip  all  those  way  wires  and  call  on  th'  chafe; 

An'  whin  he's  not  busy  or  too  badly  rusht. 

He  goes  for  thim,  sayin',  "why  can't  yez  ajust?" 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


An'  'pon  me  owld  sowl,  phat  I  tell  yez  is  thrue, 
A  wake  local's  made  sthrong  hy  th'  turn  av  a  screw. 
If  agin  fir  those  lads  ary  local  I  schrub. 
May  I  ne'er  take  out  crosses  agin  wid  a  club. 

So  write  'em  up  lively,  now  in  th'  nex  plug, 
Yez  can  give  'em  a  fottygraft,  too,  of  their  mug; 
Yez  can  write  it  in  prose,  or  varse,  if  yez  like. 
An'  phen  yez  hev  finished  ut  plase  sign  it 

Mike. 

I  love  her  yet. 

That  sweet  brunette; 

Although  she  has  deceived  me. 

Her  cruel  ways  did  nearly  craze, 

And  have  quite  sorely  grieved  me. 

She  wrote  bad  "Morse;" 

But  yet,  of  course, 

I  never  dared  to  "break"  her. 

She  was  so  proud. 

She'd  tell  the  crowd. 

How  quick  and  well  I'd  take  her. 

But  Oh!  alas! 

It  came  to  pass, 

I  made  a  horrid  blunder 

Which  roused  her  ire, 

And  o'er  the  wire 

She  told  me  '*Go  to  thunder." 

In  the  issue  of  'Telegraphica,"  dated  May  20th,  1873,  a  poem 
was  reproduced,  containing  thirteen  verses,  entitled  "The  Stern 
Reality,"  written  by  Charles  Ingersoll  Brown.  It  has  a  very 
musical  lilt  and  is  one  of  the  best  of  the  early  telegraph  poems. 
The  sixth  and  seventh  verses  follow : 

Thomas  fell  in  love  with  Nancy  Anna's  disposition, 
You  yourselves  had  done  the  same  if  placed  in  his  position; 
She  was  indeed — by  telegraph — as  sweet  as  Jersey  peaches. 
With  a  knack  for  simple  jokes  and  sentimental  speeches. 

Every  week-day  morning  when  the  wires  were  in  trim 

Thomas  said  g.  m.,  to  her  and  she  g.  m.,  to  him; 

Every  idle  afternoon  when  business  was  over, 

Down  they  sat  to  have  a  chat,  and  thought  themselves  in  clover. 

The  following  verse  is  from  a  poem  containing  five  verses, 
written  by  Edward  A.  Rand,  appearing  in  "Telegraphica,"  June 
loth,  1873: 

Over  the  marsh  by  the  railroad, 

The  wild  winds  sweep  today, 
And  they  touch  the  telegraph  wires, 

And  a  strange,  weird  tune  they  play, 
'Till  the  air  is  sweet  with  harpings. 

As  of  church  bells  far  away. 


10    .  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

In  the  year  1884,  three  verses  appeared  in  the  "Telegraph- 
ist," entitled  "Lines  On  a  Telegraph  Pole,"  the  first  verse  read- 
ing: 

Rising  out  of  a  bed  of  heather, 

Where  a  legion  of  weeds  entwine, 
And  the  grasses  and  nettles  grow  thick  together, 
There  stands  an  old  friend  of  mine — 
A  weather-worn  mast, 
All  grimy  and  green. 
That  there  for  the  last 
Score  summers  has  been. 

The  quotations  submitted  herein  are  but  inadequately  sug- 
gestive of  the  excellence  of  the  literary  productions  of  telegra- 
phers during  the  seventies  and  eighties,  and  although  the  selec- 
tions have  been  made  without  caprice  or  partiality,  it  is  proba- 
ble that  many  of  the  verses,  for  which  we  have  not  space  here, 
would,  if  reproduced,  furnish  deHght  to  those  who  Hke  poetry 
and  love  telegraphy. 

If,  some  day,  an  anthology  of  telegraphic  verse  is  gathered 
with  the  object  of  giving  permanence  to  a  collection  of  the  poems 
on  this  subject,  which  have  been  written  since  the  introduction 
of  the  telegraph,  the  compiler  will  have  a  difficult  task  in  dis- 
covering more  than  a  half  dozen  or  so  poems  written  between 
1890  and  1910.  The  search  will  be  comparatively  fruitless  be- 
cause the  telegraph  journals  published  during  the  twenty  years 
referred  to  have  devoted  their  space  chiefly  to  educational  mat- 
ters of  a  technical  nature,  the  consequence  being  that  practically 
all  of  the  telegraphic  odes  and  elegies  produced  are  in  existence 
only  in  manuscript  form,  sequestered  away  with  personal  papers, 
or  reposing  in  dust-laden  archives,  in  fear  and  dread  awaiting 
the  hand  of  the  destroying  angel;  possibly,  in  some  cases,  hav- 
ing in  store  the  happier  destiny  of  resurrection  at  the  hands  of 
the  compiler  himself. 

During  the  past  few  years  there  has  been  an  auspicious  re- 
vival in  the  general  production  of  poetry,  especially  lyrical 
verse,  and  in  a  hopeful  degree  this  revival  has  stirred  to  action 
the  telegraphic  muse,  so  that  today  we  find  the  "American  Tele- 
grapher," the  "Railroad  Man's  Magazine,"  and  the  two  tele- 
grapher's trade  journals,  publishing  an  increasing  amount  of  the 
poetry  offered. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  11 

In  an  issue  of  the  ''Postal  Telegraph'*  in  1910  was  printed 
a  beautiful  poem  of  five  verses  by  Marion  Couthouy  Smith;  the 
first  and  last  verses  reading  as  follows : 

We  are  the  neryes  of  the  world. 

The  threads  of  fate  are  we, 
Whether  in  coil  or  spiral  curled. 

Or  flung  over  the  land,  and  sea; 
Prom  hoards  of  the  ages  brought. 

The  great  rocks  yield  our  life; 
With  flame  and  force  is  our  being  wrought, 

With  throes  of  toil  and  strife. 

We  are  the  harp  of  the  world, 

The  chords  of  life  are  we; 
Through  us  the  song  of  the  sphere  is  hurled 

In  the  storm  of  harmony; 
Forged  in  the  sullen  deeps. 

Strung  through  the  void  above. 
We  ring  with  a  note  that  never  sleeps — 

The  note  of  a  world-wide  love. 

To  Miss  Annie  Ellsworth,  daughter  of  the  then  Commis- 
sioner of  Patents,  was  accorded  the  honor  of  sending  the  first 
message  by  Morse's  telegraph.  Miss  Ellsworth  had  been  the 
first  person  to  announce  to  Prof.  Morse  that  Congress  had  finally 
appropriated  the  sum  of  $30,000  for  a  trial  of  his  invention.  The 
trial  line  extended  from  a  room  in  the  Capitol  in  Washington  to 
Baltimore,  Md.  The  first  public  message  was  sent  on  May 
24th,  1844. 

To  Annie  Ellsworth 

(With  apologies  to  E.  A.  P.) 

Ah!  distinctly  came  the  rapping;  "What  hath 

God  wrought"  't  was  tapping; 
And  each  separate  dying  cavil  took  its  way 

Throughout  the  door. 
Eagerly  your  bright  eye  glistened,  while  the  patient 

Morse  but  listened, 
To  the  "dots"  and  "dashes"   clicking,  ticking  out 

To  Baltimore: 
To  the  dots  and  dashes  tapping,  that  would  tap, 

For  evermore. 

A  Night  Elegy  of  "253** 

The  following  two  parodic  verses  recently  appeared  on  a 
"number"  sheet  in  one  of  the  large  relay  offices : 

The  busy  chief  struts  down  the  big  main  aisle, 
Where  humped-up  pluggers  wield  the  ticking  key; 

In  his  hands  he  totes  a  big  night-letter  file, 
And,  smiling,  hands  the  lengthy  ones  to  me. 


12  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

Now  glints  the  shining  switchboard  on  the  sight, 
The  four  walls  echo  back  a  ceaseless  din, 

As  to  the  fettered  lightning  and  the  night, 
I  wigwag  page  on  page  'till  I'm  all  in. 

I  have  in  my  scrap-book  a  dozen  or  more  poems  on  wire 
less   telegraphy,  written  during  the  past   few  years  by  radio 
operators,  and  there  is  not  an  inferior  production  in  the  lot. 

When  the  wireless-man  is  saiHng  the  high  seas,  confined  in 
his  tiny  cabin,  he  has  about  him — especially  at  night — an  atmos- 
phere which  is  very  effectively  conducive  to  philosophic  rumina- 
tion: associations,  which,  if  he  has  a  spark  of  imagination,  fur- 
nishes him  with  all  the  material  essential  in  the  construction  oi 
good  poetry. 

The  verses  quoted  below  were  written  by  K.  D.  M.  Simons 
Jr.,  and  appeared  in  the  "Wireless  Age,"  New  York,  in  1914: 

The  Wireless  Ghost 

Ghosts  there  are  of  the  crying  winds,  and  ghosts  of  the  weeping  rain, 
And  ghosts  there  are  of  the  dead,  dear  days  which  cannot  come  again! 

Warlocks  there  6e,  of  the  witches'  tale,  which  haunt  the  house  of  sin, 
And  spirits  restless  of  their  quest  for  loves  of  the  might-have-been! 

But,  o'er  the  heart  of  helpless  earth  and  the  pulse  of  prostrate  sea. 
There  hangs  a  Soul  of  Silentness,  who  laughs  in  his  duml),  dead  glee! 

He  drives  the  blind  acoustic  cloud  o'er  a  sea  as  still  as  oil, 
He  shakes  the  Dead-Spot  vacuum,  in  an  airless,  deaf,  turmoil! 

He  reads  unread  Marconigrams,  which  reach  no  mortal  ear, 
He  knows  the  deadly  pockethole,  where  the  lost  calls  disappear! 

His  is  the  toll  of  the  foundered  ships,  that  missed  the  muffled  bell — 
Toll  of  the  derelicts  which  drift,  unmanned  twixt  Heaven  and  Hell! 

0,  ghosts  there  are  of  the  crying  unnds,  and  ghosts  of  the  weeping  rain. 
And  ghosts  there  are  of  the  dead  dear  days,  which  cannot  come  again! 

Warlocks  there  be,  of  the  loitches'  tale,  which  haunt  the  house  o\f  sin. 
And  spirits  restless  of  their  quest  for  loves  of  the  might-have-been! 

But,  o'er  the  heart  of  helpless  earth  and  the  pulse  of  prostrate  sea. 
There  hangs  a  Soul  of  Silentness,  who  laughs  in  his  dumb  dread  glee! 

Here,  then,  we  have  a  story  of  telegraph  verse — verse  writ- 
ten three  hundred  years  after  the  bard  of  Avon,  in  "Midsummer 
Night's  Dream,"  made  saucy  Puck  utter  his  famous  boast :  "I'll 
put  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth  in  forty  minutes." 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  13 


SECTION  I 


SKETCHES  OF  EASTERN  STARS 

By  Jeff  W.  Hayes 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME? 

THE  little  "onpleasantness"  occurring  July  19th,  1883,  was 
readily  forgiven  by  the  gallant  General  Thomas  T.  Eck- 
ert,  who  being  a  true  soldier,  knew  how  to  be  generous 
to  a  vanquished  foe,  but  such  was  not  the  case  with  some  of  the 
petty  officials,  who  viewed  the  situation  as  a  personal  affront 
and  determined  that  they  "who  had  danced  must  pay  the  piper." 

A  number  of  good  men  were  compelled  to  quit  the  business 
and  many  others  had  to  do  the  "flagging  act"  to  obtain  employ- 
ment. 

Mr.  W.  C  Black,  now  superintendent  of  the  Postal  at  Den- 
ver, relates  his  experience  in  those  trying  days. 

His  superintendent  vowed  that  under  no  circumstances 
would  he  ever  allow  Mr.  Black  to  obtain  a  position  with  his 
company,  and  after  futile  efforts  to  make  his  peace.  Black  was 
obliged  to  "flag." 

He  obtained  employment  in  the  Buffalo  office,  changing  his 
color  to  White,  and  was  appointed  to  the  Detroit  wire. 

In  those  days  day  messages  were  called  "blacks"  and  night 
telegrams  were  known  as  "reds,"  and  in  transmitting  a  "red" 
message  it  was  necessary  to  affix  the  words  "night"  after  the 
check. 

Mr.  Black-White  was  sending  a  conglomeration  of  "blacks'* 
and  "reds"  and  was  transmitting  the  business  in  a  merry  lively 
gait. 

He  was  sending  a  bunch  of  "reds"  and  after  transmitting 
four  or  five,  forgot  to  add  the  "night"  to  the  check. 

"Is  that  black?"  queried  the  Detroit  artist,  referring,  of 
course,  to  the  color  of  the  message. 

"Yes,  it  is  Black,"  replied  the  alarmed  Buffalo  man,  "but 
for  heaven's  sake,  my  good  friend,  don't  give  me  away." 

Black  was  under  the  impression  that  the  receiving  oper- 
ator recognized  his  sending  and  was  referring  to  his  person- 
ality instead  of  the  color  of  the  telegram. 


14 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


AFTER  MANY  YEARS 

SOME  years  ago  a  little  ditty  was  l^eing  sung  around  the 
country,  the  refrain  of  which  was,  "Shake  the  hand  that 
shook  the  hand  of  John  L.  Sullivan." 

Today,  we  are  changing  it  a  little  and  are  asking  our 
friends  to  "Shake  the  hand  that  shook  the  hand  of  George  M. 
Eitemiller." 

We  have  known  Mr.  Eitemiller  for  more  than  40  years  and 
worked  opposite  him  for  a  year,  and  during  that  time  he  was 


G.  M.  EITEMILLER 


largely  responsible  for  making  a  first-class  operator  out  of 
comparatively  raw  material. 

Eitemiller  was  very  fast,  but  he  was  not  quarrelsome,  or 
egotistical.  He  knew  what  we  all  were  aware  of,  and  that  he 
was  a  phenomenal  telegrapher,  "the  greatest  one  of  his  time," 
Walter  Phillips  declares,  and  he  ought  to  know. 

"Tell  me,"  was  asked,  "what  is  the  secret  of  your  ability  to 
do  so  much  quicker  work  than  the  ordinary  run  of  operators?" 

Mr.  Eitemiller  smiled  when  he  replied  that  it  was  just  a 
gift  and  he  could  not  help  it,  and  that  he  was  not  entitled  to  any 
shower  of  roses. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "I  can  write  55  words  with  ease  every 
minute,  and  I  possess  the  faculty  of  remembering,  or  copying 
15  words  behind,  even  of  the  most  difficult  ciphers.     It  is   no 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  16 

strain  on  my  brain,  and  while  the  sending  operator  is  exerting 
himself  to  run  ahead  of  me,  I  keep  up  a  steady  speed  in  copy- 
ing. The  sending  operator  stops  to  read  copy,  or  stumbles  over 
a  word,  but  I  keep  right  along,  and  it  was  all  fun  for  me,  and 
not  a  bit  of  work." 

*T  used  to  practice  copying  behind  until  it  became  easier  for 
me  to  be  behind  half  a  message  than  it  would  to  be  right  on 
to  the  word.    • 

"I  am  6y  years  old  now  and  I  can  send  as  well  as  I  used  to  in 
the  days  of  old,  but  I  find  myself  a  bit  draggy  when  it  comes 
to  putting  it  down.  Still  I  can  do  55  or  60  messages  an  hour 
with  perfect  ease." 

The  old-timer  paused.     He  did  not  feel  like  blowing  his  own 
horn,  and  requested  that  he  be  written  up  "mildly." 

"Yes,  I  knew  them  all.  P.  V.  DeGraw,  Eddie  Boileau,  Fred 
B.  Moxon,  Hugh  Irvine,  Charlie  Cottrell,  Walter  Phillips,  Tom 
Edison,  Jimmy  Largay,  "BiflF"  Cook,  Ned  Fullum,  Geo.  Hinman, 
Bert  Ayres,  George  Armstrong,  Billy  Loper,  Tom  Wheeler, 
"Fat"  Waugh,  Tom  and  John  Taltavall,  Billy  Kettles,  Billy 
Gove,  Ernest  Emery,  Ed  Risdon,  "Dug"  Burnett,  Tom  Bishop, 
Jim  Austin,  Ed  Stewart,  Morrell  Marean,  Tom  Sherman,  Bob 
Wynne,  Sam  Wallace,  Charlie  Thayer,  Maurice  Brick,  Charlie 
Moore,  Bennie  Lloyd,  Henry  Shelley,  Harvey  Reynolds,  John 
Lapey,  O.  A.  Gurley,  Billy  Jones  and  hundreds  of  others. 

"You  see,  I  know  'em  all,  don't  you?"  said  the  old-timer, 
"  and  I  wish  you  were  not  going  to  Cleveland  tonight,  for  I 
have  many  stories  to  tell  about  them  all." 

"Tell  me,  Eity,  how  about  that  story  that  Fred  Gushing 
tells  about  you?  Why  he  relates  that  you  can  write  the  word 
'Philadelphia'  sixty  times  a  minute,  is  that  a  fact?" 

It  was  wonderful  how  tactfully  the  old-timer  evaded  a  di- 
rect reply,  but  hinted  that,  "if  he  copied  behind,"  he  might  be 
able  to  do  it,  which  remark  provoked  a  smile  all  around. 

It  certainly  was  a  treat  to  visit  with  Mr.  Eitemiller,  and  we 
shall  remember  our  evening  with  him  as  one  of  the  compen- 
sating episodes  of  a  long  journey. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  if  the  talent  possessed  by  Mr.  Eite- 
miller had  been  directed  in  some  other  channel,  better  results 
would  have  been  obtained,  but  after  all,  "it's  all  in  a  life  time," 
and  "Eitey"  is  the  last  one  in  the  world  to  regret  lost  oppor- 
tunities. 


16 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


Success  to  you,  old  partner,  and  may  your  way  down  the 
valley  of  life  be  strewn  with  only  the  best  of  things  from  God's 
great  and  abundant  garden. 


PERSPICUITY 

WE  recently  spent  two  very  delightful     days     with     Mr. 
Walter  P.  Phillips,  at  his  home  in  Bridgeport,  Conn.,  and 
the  time  passed  there  was  a  feast  of  reason  and  a  flow 
of  soul. 

"Inebriates  and  children  always  tell  the  truth,"  remarked 
Mr.  Phillips.  "Why,  I  was  sitting  in  a  swell  hotel  in  New  Or- 
leans, some  years  ago,  with  Charlie  Cottrell  for  a  companion. 
You  know  what  a  beautiful  face  Charlie  possesses,  and  his  beau- 
tiful face  is  reflected  in  a  beautiful  soul. 

"We  had  been  carrying  on  a  very  interesting  conversation 
for  some  little  time,  when  a  man,  an  intelligent  looking  fellow, 
but  much  under  the  influence  of  liquor  came  along  and  began  to 
survey  us.  He  seemed  much  interested  in  Mr.  Cottrell,  and 
approaching  close  to  us,  he  doffed  his  hat  and  said,  addressing 
Charlie:  'Mister,  you  have  a  face  Hke  our  Savior,'  and  then 
turning  to  me,  looked  me  over  critically  and  said,  *And  you,  sir, 
you  have  a  face  like  a  dog-goned  schemer.* " 


C.  H.  SHELL 


EDWARD  P.  WACH 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


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18  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


HATTIE  ZUNDELL 


THE  operator  at  Port  Clinton  was  a  merry,  blithesome  lassie. 
She  was  known  as  the  best  operator  on  the  line  but  that 
fact  never  rendered  her  top  heavy. 

Hattie  was  pretty,  vivacious,  could  mount  or  alight  from  a 
train  in  motion  with  the  grace  and  dexterity  manifested  by  an 
accomplished  train  hand. 

Little  Jack  Hazelton,  aged  14,  was  night  operator  at  San- 
dusky, the  next   station  below  Port  Clinton. 

Of  course  Jack  and  Hattie  became  acquainted  over  the 
wire,  but  from  the  "big"  way  in  which  little  Jack  talked,  Hattie 
gained  the  impression  that  he  was  of  more  mature  years. 

One  day,  Jack  boarded  a  freight  train  bound  west  and  an 
hour  later  passed  Port  Clinton  station,  where  the  gentle  Hattie 
sat  at  the  key,  in  plain  sight  of  the  passing  train  hands. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Jack  had  seen  the  young  lady 
and  she  was  far  from  suspecting  his  close  proximity. 

The  train  bearing  Jack  stopped  at  Gypsum,  a  few  miles 
further  up  the  road  in  the  middle  of  an  immense  apple  orchard. 

The  day  was  waning  and  the  young  operator  saw  it  was 
time  to  return;  He  found  a  flour  sack  in  the  caboose  and  step- 
ping into  the  orchard  proceeded  to  fill  it  with  red  Baldwin 
beauties,  which  were  intended  as  a  present  to  the  Port  Clinton 
operator. 

Mounting  the  way  freight  soon  after,  he  started  for  home. 

Upon  reaching  the  station  where  Hattie  Zundell  presided, 
the  freight  train  waited  for  orders  but  Jack  was  too  bashful  to 
make  himself  known. 

Just  as  the  train  was  about  to  move  on,  the  young  lady's 
attention  was  attracted  to  a  boy  on  top  of  a  box  car  who  was 
persistently  calHng,  "Z"  "Z"  "Z"  which  was  Hattie's  private 
signal.  She  looked  up  smiling  to  see  Jack  swinging  a  bag  of 
apples  in  his  arms.  The  train  was  now  moving  and  Hattie, 
with  a  motion,  gave  the  hint  that  she  would  enjoy  an  apple. 

"Here,  take  the  whole  shootin'  match,"  said  Jack  as  he 
aimed  the  bag  at  the  depot  window. 

Never  was  aim  more  accurate,  and  an  instant  later,  flour 
sack  and  apples  went  crashing  through  the  window ;  bringing 
down  with  it  window,  glass,  sash  and  all,  demolishing  a  pretty 
vase  of  flowers  on  the  operating  table,  upsetting  the  ink  stand 
and  raising  general  havoc. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


19 


E.  W.  COLLINS 


E.  J.  NALLY 


MRS.  C.  W.  POTTER 


II.  II.  BORCKENUAGEN 


20  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

Hattie  screamed  with  joy  and  was  all  smiles,  but  not  so 
section  boss  Kelly,  who  seemed  to  believe  he  had  an  individual 
interest  in  the  company's  property. 

Kelly  gave  chase  to  the  fleeing  train,  but  never  overtook  it. 
Latterly,  he  tried  to  have  the  young  lady  tell  him  who  did  the 
damage,  but  Hattie  was  too  loyal,  even  if  she  did  suspect. 

Arriving  at  Sandusky,  Jack  cautiously  called  up  Port  Clin- 
ton to  ascertain  the  amount  of  the  devastation  he  had  done, 
and  boy  and  girl  grew  better  acquainted. 

Some  few  weeks  later.  Jack  bade  goodby  to  his  job  and 
went  South  and  he  and  Hattie  never  met. 

The  young  lady  grew  to  be  a  wonderful  operator  distin- 
guishing herself  by  being  the  only  lady  operator  in  the  Cin- 
cinnati office  who  could  successfully  work  the  Louisville  local. 

Some  years  later  she  married  Dr.  Faulkner  who  worked  the 
Louisville  end  of  the  circuit,  and  in  a  recent  visit  to  New  York, 
Jack  Hazelton  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  young  Mr.  Faulk- 
ner, now  filling  a  responsible  position  with  the  Southern  Pacific 
railroad  in  that  city. 

Dr.  and  Mrs.  Faulkner  live  in  Brooklyn  and  Hattie  Zundell 
of  former  years  is  as  light-hearted  now  as  she  was  when  she 
signed  "Z"  in  Port  Clinton,  Ohio,  and  ate  red  Baldwin  apples 
out  of  a  white  flour  sack. 


TOO  MUCH  STEAM 

WHEN  C.  J.  Steinal,  now  superintendent  of  telegraph  of  the 
San  Pedro  and  Salt  Lake  road,  was  a  boy  of  14,  he  was 
appointed  by  J.  Levin,  then  manager  for  the.  Western 
Union  at  St.  Joseph,  Mo.,  to  the  position  of  deHvery  clerk. 

Young  Steinal  had  plenty  of  ginger  in  his  composition,  a 
necessary  attribute  for  a  youthful  "booker,"  as  the  messengers 
called  the  delivery  clerk. 

Being  so  very  young,  Steinal  found  it,  at  times,  hard  to  man- 
age the  obstreperous  boys  in  his  charge,  and  in  his  anxiety  to 
make  a  record  and  to  keep  the  messages  moving,  he  would  often 
resort  to  a  rough  and  tumble  fight  to  show  his  authority  and  to 
coerce  the  recalcitrant  messenger  to  perform  his  duties. 

Of  course,  his  use  of  force  was  done  while  the  manager  was 
out,  but  one  day  Mr.  Levin  dropped  into  the  "bull  pen"  and  wit- 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH 


21 


E.  C.  KEENAN 


S.  H.  MUDGE 


C.  W.  POTTER 


H.  L.  HEISLEU 


22  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

nessed  his  prize  delivery  clerk  engaged  in  a  bloody  altercation 
with  a  messenger  four  years  his  senior. 

"Oh,  tut,  tut,"  said  Jake,  "don't  you  know  any  better  than 
that?  You  should  not  use  that  whip  you  have  in  your  hand  on 
the  messengers ;  better  get  a  stuffed  club  which  won't  hurt 
them." 

Blushingly  the  young  delivery  clerk  took  the  admonitions 
of  his  superior,  and  that  night,  on  reaching  home  he  had  his 
mother  cut  out  a  sleeve  from  an  old  coat,  which  he  stuffed  with 
rags,  excelsior  and  the  Hke,  making  it  good  and  soggy,  but  not 
capable  of  inflicting  any  damage. 

.  Coming  into  his  office  the  next  morning,  what  was  Mr. 
Levin's  surprise  to  find  his  deHvery  clerk  again  mounted  on  the 
back  of  one  of  the  messengers,  pummelling  him  with  a  formid- 
able weapon,  big  enough  to  beat  out  his  brains. 

"What  are  you  doing  now?"  exclaimed  the  manager. 

"I'm  just  obeying  orders ;  using  a  stuffed  club  on  the  mes- 
sengers instead  of  the  rawhide,  which  you  did  not  Hke,"  replied 
Steinal. 

"Oh,  my  boy,  I  did  not  mean  you  to  take  my  orders  literally. 
I  merely  wanted  you  to  take  something  soft  to  them.  Use  soft 
words  and  talk  nicely  to  them,  for  who  knows  but  some  day 
you'll  be  asking  one  of  these  same  boys  for  a  job." 

Steinal,  abashed  and  contrite,  burned  up  his  stuffed  club  and 
began  to  cultivate  the  soft  words  advocated  by  his  manager,  and 
the  lesson  was  a  lasting  one. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  think  of  the  Mr.  Steinal  of  today  as 
other  than  a  man  meek  as  Moses  and  soft  of  heart. 


LEARNING  THE  BUSINESS 

FORT  MADISON,  IOWA,  was  a  beautiful  little  village,  sit- 
uated on  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi,  and  at  the  time  of  my 
story  was  quite  a  prosperous  place. 

The  Mississippi  Valley  Telegraph  Company  had  estabHshed 
an  office  at  this  point  and  Richmond  Smith  was  appointed  man- 
ager. 

A  bright  young  boy,  named  Louis  H.  Korty,  acted  in  the 
capacity  of  messenger,  and,  as  the  office  was  in  a  drug  store, 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH 


23 


T.  N.  POWERS 


24  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

young  Korty  added  the  compounding  of  pellets  to  the  rest  of  his 
duties,  all  for  the  munificent  salary  of  $i6  per. 

Without  paying  any  particular  attention  to  the  acquiring  of 
telegraphic  knowledge,  Korty,  at  odd  times,  picked  up  a  letter 
or  two  of  the  Morse  alphabet,  but  like  all  new  beginners,  he 
would  get  the  letters  mixed  and  the  letter  "c"  would  be  twisted 
into  an  "r,"  an  "x"  into  a  "q,"  etc.  He  did  not  seem  to  be  cut  out 
for  an  operator  and  would,  no  doubt,  have  clung  to  the  drug- 
store, had  not  a  simple  Httle  incident  occurred  which  materially 
changed  his  future. 

The  line  was  down  south  of  Fort  Madison  one  day,  and  one 
of  the  little  river  packet  steamers  brought  a  letter  from  the 
manager  of  the  Keokuk  office,  bearing  the  following  legend : 

"Important,  open  and  forward  quickly." 

Richmond  Smith,  manager,  was  out  on  the  line  looking  for 
the  trouble,  and  Louis  H.  Korty,  messenger,  thought  it  his  duty 
to  open  that  package,  inasmuch,  too,  as  it  was  labeled  "Im- 
portant." 

Fourteen  messages  were  in  the  envelope,  all  going  to  Chi- 
cago and  the  east. 

What  was  there  to  be  done?  Richmond  Smith's  return  was 
problematical,  and  the  telegrams  were  all  important. 

Young  Korty  made  up  his  mind  that  it  was  up  to  him  to 
distinguish  himself,  but  then  he  did  not  even  know  the  alphabet. 

Luckily  he  found  a  copy  of  the  Morse  alphabet  in  a  dusty 
pigeon-hole  of  the  druggist's  desk. 

Armed  with  this  for  a  reference,  Korty  proceeded  to  call 
"Ch." 

"I,"  "I,"  "Ch,"  came  as  a  response. 

Trembhng  in  every  nerve,  the  embryo  artist  essayed  to  re- 
mark:  "Fhave  fourteen  messages  which  came  up  by  l^oat  from 
Keokuk,  and  there  is  no  operator  here  to  send  them,  and  what 
shall  I  do?" 

The  Chicago  operator  was  Fred  H.  Tubbs,  and  he  replied 
slowly  "ga,"  but  Korty  did  not  understand  what  "ga"  meant. 

Mr.  Tubbs  was  anxious  to  get  those  messages  moving,  and 
he,  no  doubt  figured  that  a  chap  who  had  the  nerve  to  call  the 
Chicago  office  and  inform  him  of  the  situation,  had  also  per- 
spicuity enough  to  work  the  messages  off. 

Changing  his  "ga"  to  "send  them  along"  encouraged  the 
youthful  aspirant  and  he  started  in. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


25 


Ghico^Ibstal 


26  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

Frequently  was  the  paper  containing  the  Morse  code  con- 
sulted and  often  a  letter  "c*'  and  "x"  was  transposed,  but  the 
excellent  judgment  of  Mr.  Tubbs  eliminated  all  errors,  and  when 
the  last  of  the  14  messages  had  been  transmitted,  Mr.  Tubbs 
said: 

•*'0.  K.,"  boy,  you  are  a  daisy,"  and  Korty  sat  down  sweating 
from  every  pore. 

It  was  a  very  nervy  thing  for  a  boy  to  undertake,  and  when 
Richmond  Smith  returned  from  repairing  the  line,  he  upbraided 
the  messenger  for  his  temerity,  but,  the  next  day  in  comparing 
with  the  Chicago  office,  he  found  there  was  not  an  error  made. 

Richmond  Smith  was  shortly  afterwards  called  to  the  Chi- 
cago office  and  Louis  H.  Korty  was  made  manager  of  the  Fort 
Madison  office,  his  appointment  being  recommended  by  Fred  H. 
Tubbs,  who  saw  a  good  future  for  the  erstwhile  messenger. 

The  great  war  of  the  Rebellion  is  over  and  adjustment  and 
reconciliation  is  trying  to  be  effected. 

Louis  H.  Korty  gave  up  the  office  at  Fort  Madisou  and  en- 
listed in  the  Union  army  at  an  early  date  of  the  trouble. 

He  was  always  ready  to  do  his  duty,  and  nothing  was  too 
difficult  for  him  to  attempt.  He  was  merely  carrying  out  the 
lesson  he  learned  when  he  sent  his  first  telegrams. 

After  filling  with  satisfaction  many  positions  during  the  days 
of  Reconstruction,  Korty  was  appointed  manager  of  the  New 
Orleans  office. 

There  were  many  sympathizers  with  the  South  employed 
as  clerks  and  operators  in  the  New  Orleans  office,  and  there  was, 
no  doubt,  many  a  bleeding  heart  among  these  noble  fellows. 
Korty,  in  his  quiet,  gentle  way,  tried  to  make  the  past  forgotten 
and  engender  a  more  loving  spirit  among  his  employees. 


BREAKING  A  STRIKE 

TELEGRAPH   companies,   sometimes,  get  on  a  strike,   and 
the  experience  that  they  acquire  in  the  "real  thing"  serves 
them  well  in  gaining  their  point. 
Dennis  F.  Brown,  one  of  the  old,  old-timers,  relates  his  ex- 
perience  when   the   telegraph    company   struck   on   the    Dwyer 
brothers,  who  conducted  a  race  track  at  Gray's  End,  along  about 
1892. 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH  27 

There  were  in  the  neighborhood  of  200  pool  rooms  doing 
business  in  New  York  at  this  time,  and  the  company  were  fur- 
nishing the  sports  with  race  track  bulletins.  It  was  a  profitable 
enterprise  for  the  company,  but  Dwyer  Brothers  found  that  most 
of  their  patrons  were  viewing  the  races  from  the  Broadway 
pool  rooms,  instead  of  visiting  the  race  track  and  purchasing  an 
entrance  fee. 

The  race  track  proprietors  determined  to  exclude  the  tele- 
graph company  from  the  field  and  put  up  a  prohibitory  price  to 
allow  the  company  on  the  grounds,  something  in  the  thousands 
of  dollars  daily. 

Failure  to  accede  to  these  extravagant  demands  resulted  in 
the  wires  being  cut  and  the  instruments  eliminated  from  the 
track. 

This  was  a  sudden  and  hard  blow.  The  telegraph  company 
was  under  contract  to  furnish  the  pool  rooms  with  the  returns, 
and  failure  to  do  so  meant  endless  litigation. 

In  this  dilemma,  resort  was  had  to  various  ways  of  beating 
the  devil  around  the  stump,  so  to  speak. 

Supt.  Humestone  gathered  around  him  to  cope  with  this 
emergency,  a  number  of  daring  and  enterprising  operators  to 
assist  in  breaking  the  strike.  There  were  men  from  Chicago 
and  New  York,  conversant  with  the  means  necessary  to  carry  on 
a  warfare  such  as  must  be  used  in  these  emergencies. 

Denny  Brown,  who  was  working  in  Washington,  was  wired 
to  report  to  New  York  office.  Denny  had  taken  part  in  two 
strikes,  but  always  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence,  and  it  was 
thought  his  experience  in  such  matters  would  be  valuable. 

The  few  days  preceding  the  race  was  spent  in  rehearsing 
the  programme  to  be  carried  out,  and  on  the  opening  day  of  the 
races,  the  company  felt,  if  they  were  unmolested,  they  would  be 
able  to  handle  the  situation. 

The  Dwyer  brothers,  however,  were  not  asleep  and  had  en- 
gaged the  services  of  105  Pinkerton  detectives  to  see  that  the 
telegraph  company  were  shut  out  completely,  but  they  "reck- 
oned without  the  host." 

Denny  Brown's  fine  mind  brought  into  play  some  two  dozen 
homing  pigeons. 

These  tractable  birds  were  carried  into  the  grounds  by 
young  ladies  who  wrote  off  in  turn  news  from  the  track.      A 


28  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

little  slip  of  paper  with  this  news  was  tied  around  the  pigeon's 
neck,  when  she  was  set  at  liberty. 

The  birds  flew  to  their  nest,  where  a  Morse  set  was  in  ac- 
tive operation  and  the  contents  of  the  billet  was  wired  speedily 
to  the  pool  rooms. 

This  Httle  play  lasted  for  two  days,  when  Pinkertons'  men 
caught  on  and  began  ruthlessly  shooting  the  birds. 

The  Society  for  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals  was  in- 
voked to  prevent  this  massacre,  but  the  jig  was  up  so  far  as 
working  the  carrier  pigeons  to  assist  in  the  fight  was  concerned. 

Two  hundred  baseballs  were  next  bought,  the  returns  being 
put  inside  the  ball  and  tossed  over  the  fence,  where  the  watch- 
ful Denny,  or  his  cohorts,  were  on  the  alert  to  catch  them  on  the 
fly. 

The  Pinkerton  men  also  proved  adepts  as  ball  tossers  and 
catchers,  materially  interfering  with  Denny's  well  laid  plans. 

After  two  days  of  this  kind  of  skirmishing,  it  was  decided  to 
resort  to  something  else. 

A  well-dressed  gentleman  appeared  on  the  track  with  a  cane 
and  umbrella  in  hand.  He  had  a  code  of  wigwagging  signals 
easily  interpreted  by  a  student  of  that  art,  but  the  vigilant 
sleuths  pierced  his  actions  and  ejected  him  from  the  grounds. 

The  foUoAving  morning  two  immense  poles,  90  feet  in  height 
were  erected  on  each  side  of  the  track,  one  being  occupied  at  a 
height  of  75  feet  by  a  man  with  several  flags,  who,  sitting  astride 
a  cross-arm,  would  go  through  all  kinds  of  motions  with  the 
flags. 

This  was,  however,  merely  a  bHnd,  as  the  real  work  was 
done  from  the  other  pole,  where  60  feet  above  the  ground  and 
overlooking  the  field,  sat  Dennis  Brown,  calmly  viewing  the  race 
track,  and  clicking  off  the  returns  to  the  main  office,  when  they 
were  immediately  forwarded  to  the  pool  rooms. 

So  cleverly  had  Brown  wired  the  pole  and  made  the  con- 
nections with  the  office  in  the  adjacent  hotel,  that  the  most  scru- 
tinizing examination  by  the  Pinkerton  men  could  not  elicit  any- 
thing of  what  was  going  on,  the  man  with  the  flags  on  the  other 
pole  being  thought  to  be  the  real  worker. 

A  couple  more  days  went  by  and  the  stratagem  was  un- 
earthed and  further  devices  had  to  be  resorted  to. 

The  following  day,  a  gentleman,  with  three  elegantly  at- 
tired ladies,  in  an  open  barouche  drove  into  the  grounds.     The 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


29 


30  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

driver  was  perched  on  his  box,  as  usual,  but  there  were  some 
things  occurring  which  were  not  as  usual. 

On  the  driver's  head  rested  a  high  hat  with  a  glass  top.  In 
other  words  the  top  of  the  hat  had  been  removed  and  a  round 
piece  of  glass  inserted. 

Under  the  driver's  seat  was  a  battery,  which  was  attached 
by  secret  wires  to  a  key  in  the  vest  pocket  of  the  gentleman  oc- 
cupant of  the  carriage,  Mr.  Frost  by  name. 

Two  hundred  feet  away  and  on  the  cupola  of  a  hotel,  in  a 
room,  the  windows  of  which  were  covered  with  black  cambric 
to  shut  out  inspection,  sat  Denny  Brown,  alive  to  his  business. 

A  slit  had  been  made  in  the  cambric,  and  through  this  hole  a 
spyglass  was  inserted,  and  there  was  the  boy,  Dennis  Brown, 
completely  removed  from  gazers,  reading  the  flashes  of  light  out 
of  the  cab  driver's  hat  at  the  same  time  transmitting  the  mystic 
characters  to  their  destination,  the  pool  rooms.  Mr.  Frost  was 
entirely  unobserved,  and  no  one  could  possibly  suspect  the  driver, 
and  there  you  are. 

This  ruse  was  a  world  beater,  but  even  this  neat  piece  of 
strategy  had  its  day,  for  one  night  the  cab  driver  got  on  a 
jamboree  and  exhibited  his  hat,  which  told  the  tale,  putting  the 
Pinkerton  men  wise.  It  was  all  too  late,  however,  as  it  was  the 
last  day  of  the  races,  and  the  enterprise  of  the  company  and 
Denny  Brown's  discriminating  mind  had  won  the  day. 


SILENCE  IS  GOLDEN 

4  ( O  PEECH  is  silver,  but  silence  is  golden,"  is  an  ever  wise 
iJ    adage,  as  the  following  story  will  illustrate. 

There  was  a  young  man  working  in  the  New  York 
office  in  the  '70's  named  Willis  J.  Cook,  familiarly  known  to  the 
fraternity  as  "Biff"  Cook. 

Mr.  Cook  has  been  immortalized  in  song  and  story  by  his 
life-long  friend,  Walter  P.  Phillips. 

Biff  came  to  Omaha  in  1877  ^^^  ^^^^  immediately  received 
into  the  hearts  of  all  the  boys. 

He  was  full  of  anecdote  and  reminiscences  and  would  enter- 
tain by  the  hour  spinning  yarns,  all  good  and  interesting. 

"I've  a  good  one  on  the  New  York  Herald,"  and  Biif  smiled 
meditatively,  but  it  is  hardly  fair  to  repeat  it  again. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  31 

It  occurred  in  the  early  'yo's,  and  reports  received  from 
Mount  Vesuvius  had  a  tendency  to  worry  the  people.  An  erup- 
tion was  expected  and  the  people  generally  were  on  the  qui  vive 
to  get  the  news.  Much  rumbHng  was  heard  and  occasionally  a 
volume  of  smoke  would  issue  from  the  crater,  spreading  conster- 
nation among  the  surrounding  inhabitants. 

All  of  the  big  New  York  daily  papers  imrriediately  dis- 
patched a  corps  of  correspondents  to  the  scene  with  instructions 
to  work  quickly  when  the  time  came.  Representatives  of  the 
press  from  all  parts  of  the  globe  were  there,  and  a  right  jolly  lot 
they  were. 

The  hoary  old  mountain  was  flirting  apparently  with  the  cor- 
respondents, for  it  would  be  on  its  good  behavior  for  days  at  a 
time,  then  belch  forth  a  little  smoke,  merely  to  indicate  that  it 
was  still  in  business,  but  not  ready  for  action. 

The  different  representatives  of  these  papers  would  meet  and 
chat  over  the  situation,  exchanging  ideas  and  items,  and  as  they 
were  a  merry  lot  a  good  time  was  had. 

There  was  one  chap,  however,  who  did  not  partake  in  these 
merry  gatherings,  yet  was  always  around  just  the  same,  but  was 
no  mixer. 

This  was  the  correspondent  of  the  New  York  Herald  and  his 
name  was  David  Fraser,  a  Scotchman  by  birth. 

For  several  days  Fraser  refused  any  intimacy  with  his  fel- 
low correspondents,  who  were  trying  to  figure  out  some  scheme 
to  make  him  more  sociable. 

A  dinner  was  given  in  honor  of  Fraser,  and  many  of  the 
knights  of  the  quill  were  present. 

Wine  was  indulged  in,  and  right  here  Fraser  was  at  home. 

The  other  correspondents  had  made  no  secret  of  their  in- 
structions from  their  journals,  and  all  were  anxious  to  know 
what  were  the  orders  given  to  the  Herald  man. 

The  fruit  of  the  wine  made  this  a  matter  of  easy  accom- 
plishment. 

While  the  dinner  progressed  Fraser  found  his  tongue,  as  is 
generally  the  custom  in  such  cases,  and  once  started,  wanted 
to  talk  incessantly. 

It  did  not  take  long  for  the  Scotchman  to  give  away  his 
instructions.  He  announced  that  his  people  had  told  him  just 
as  soon  as  the  eruption  started  to  cable  just  two  words  and  they 
would  do  the  rest. 


32  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

"What  are  the  two  words?"  rang  out  from  all  sides,  but  the 
canny  Scotchman  would  not  say. 

Continued  libations,  however,  made  him  still  more  communi- 
cative. 

"Well,  I  tell  ye,  lads,  I'm  just  to  cable  'Vesuvius  groans,'  and 
my  work  is  done." 

Significant  looks  passed  around  the  table  and  an  adjourn- 
ment was  soon  made. 

"I'll  tell  you,  boys,  it  will  be  the  joke  of  the  season,"  said  the 
Times  correspondent,  addressing  his  colleagues. 

A  laugh  went  up,  and  the  party  repaired  to  the  telegraph 
office  and  the  following  cablegram  was  put  on  the  wire : 
"To  the  New  York  Herald,  New  York : 

"Vesuvius  groans." 

Under  the  deep,  blue  sea  sped  the  bogus  message,  and  "Here 
it  is  at  last"  came  from  the  telegraph  editor. 

Column  after  column,  page  a;fter  page,  scenes  from  the  imag- 
inary eruption  were  depicted,  making  a  most  thrilling  story. 

The  New  York  Herald  was  the  only  paper  which  published 
the  story  and  queries  from  the  other  journals  to  their  corre- 
spondents were  flashed  over  the  cable  early  the  following  morn- 
ing. 

When  the  truth  became  manifest  a  great  laugh  went  up 
David  Fraser  had  to  seek  another  position,  and  it  is  presumed 
that  he  has  learned  the  art  of  keeping  his  business  to  himself. 


Iv.  C   D* 


HE  was  an  impressive  looking  chap  as  he  walked  into  the 
office  of  the  Western  Union  Telegraph  Company  and  re- 
ported for  assignment  to  Chief  Operator  W.  J.  Sullivan. 
"I  am  George  C.  Gute  and  I  have  been  sent  here  to  go  to 
work  and  am  ready  to  begin  my  duties,"  said  the  newcomer,  in 
a  voice  and  with  a  manner  which  indicated  good  breeding  and 
polish. 

Mr.  Sullivan  greeted  the  stranger  in  his  usual  cordial  man- 
ner and  assigned  his  hours  for  work. 

Gute  had  put  up  at  the  best  hotel  in  the  city.  His  clothes 
were  of  the  finest  texture  and  the  most  fashionable  cut.  A  fur- 
lined  overcoat,  which  must  have  cost  several  hundred  dollars 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH 


3:{ 


\litJifel 


^Cx^  i7'^^va^^^i&vvv»-«-»^ 


ttrxs 


.^^^^ 


'}^2C^.:A^'ib-:^^'v^t 


34  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

covered  his  form.  He  was  six  feet  three  inches  in  height,  with 
an  easy  military  bearing,  a  strikingly  handsome  face,  possessing 
every  indication  of  a  man  to  the  manor  born. 

The  first  afternoon  spent  in  Detroit  by  Gute  was  devoted  to 
hunting  up  a  place  to  live. 

In  passing  up  Fort  street  he  observed  a  quaint,  old-fash- 
ioned, aristocratic  looking  house,  built  in  years  gone  by,  in  which 
he  found  an  elegant  suite  of  rooms. 

He  met  the  concierge,  a  most  aristocratic  lady,  who  became 
impressed  with  Gute's  appearance  and  carriage. 

The  room  was  plainly,  but  massively  furnished,  the  appoint- 
ments partaking  of  revolutionary  times,  and  everything  was  in 
keeping  and  harmonized  with  the  surroundings. 

A  few  days  after  the  arrival  of  Gute  in  the  Detroit  office, 
letters  began  pouring  in  addressed  to  him  through  the  mails. 
Most  of  this  mail  originated  in  Chicago  and  some  waggish  friend, 
in  forwarding  the  letters,  had  prefixed  various  titles  to  his  name, 
such  as  "Commodore"  George  Gute,  "George  Gute,  K.  C.  B.," 
"His  Excellency,"  George  Gute,  "Prince"  George  Gute,  "Duke" 
George  Gute,  etc.,  etc. 

The  boys  in  the  Detroit  office  were  speedy  to  catch  on  and 
they,  too,  added  their  quota  to  the  easy  titles  Gute  was  receiving. 

Now,  these  letters  were  sent  over  to  Gute's  apartments,  he 
being  on  night  duty,  and,  of  course,  the  addresses  and  titles 
were  carefully  scrutinized  and  criticised  by  the  landlady  and  her 
maiden  daughter,  who  began  to  suspect  that  they  were  enter- 
taining royalty  unawares. 

"Why,  mamma,  I  could  tell  that  he  was  a  Prince  from  the 
first  time  I  laid  my  eyes  on  him.  He  has  probably  had  an  affair 
of  the  heart,  and  is  now  traveling  incognito,  but  you  cannot  hide 
royalty,  and  oh,  mamma,  supposing  he  should  take  a  liking  to 
me?"  and  here  the  young  lady  blushed  in  anticipation. 

Gute  met  mother  and  daughter  in  the  hallway  as  he  was 
leaving  the  house  for  his  evening  duties  at  the  telegraph  office. 
All  the  haughtiness  and  stiffness  of  the  day  before  was  gone, 
and  both  ladies  beamed  smilingly  and  graciously  upon  him  as  he 
disappeared  down  the  stairway. 

"I  wonder  what's  up?"  ejaculated  George,  as  he  sped  along. 
"They  have  certainly  changed  their  demeanor,"  but  he  did  not 
realize  that  the  ladies  had  read  the  addresses  on  his  mail  ere  it 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH  85 

had  reached  him,  and  the  titles,  his  noble  bearing,  not  to  men- 
tion his  fur-lined  overcoat,  had  created  the  metamorphosis. 

It  was  I  :oo  a.  m.  when  George  Gute  repaired  to  his  quarters 
on  Fort  street. 

He  opened  the  door  as  usual,  walked  leisurely  upstairs, 
opened  the  door  of  his  own  apartment,  glanced  around  the  room 
and  quick  as  a  flash  closed  the  door  and  sped  down  the  stair- 
way into  the  street. 

"I  got  into  the  wrong  house,"  he  exclaimed.  "Let's  see 
where  I  am.  No,  this  is  the  right  number  sure  and  my  key 
unlocks  the  door.  Perhaps,  after  all,  I  merely  got  into  the 
wrong  room,  so  I'll  be  more  careful  and  see." 

Taking  another  look  at  the  number  to  assure  himself  that 
he  was  right,  he  again  opened  the  door  and  quietly  climbed  the 
stairs. 

"Yes,  this  is  the  room  that  I  paid  for,"  he  mused,  "and  I  will 
try  it  again." 

He  opened  the  door  hesitatingly,  but  the  room  did  not  look 
anything  like  the  one  he  had  left  only  a  few  hours  previously. 
All  of  the  furniture  had  been  changed,  but  there  was  his  trunk 
and  some  of  his  clothing,  but  what  had  happened? 

A  mirror  six  feet  tall  had  replaced  the  dinky  looking  glass 
of  the  previous  day,  a  magnificent  Steinway  piano  adorned  the 
corner,  the  carpets  and  bed  had  been  changed,  and  the  room  was 
sumptuous  to  a  royal  degree. 

"This  is  certainly  grand,  but  there's  nothing  too  good  for 
me,"  smilingly  remarked  the  young  man  to  himself,  as  he  laid 
himself  down  for  his  night's  rest. 

Much  attention  was  lavished  on  Gute  by  the  ladies  of  the 
house  for  the  next  few  days,  the  young  man  being  occasionally 
addressed  by  them  as  "My  Lord,"  much  to  his  amusement. 

Another  installment  of  mail  received  the  following  day,  with 
additional  titles,  occasioned  still  greater  tokens  of  respect  and 
deference,  and  Gute  tumbled. 

He  did  not  attempt  to  undeceive  the  ladies,  but  enjoyed 
their  homage  for  a  few  days  longer,  when  he  betook  himself  to 
a  more  modest  apartment,  where  he  would  be  free  from  suspi- 
cions of  royalty. 

His  former  landlady  never  learned  anything  to  the  contrary 
and  if  she  happens  to  read  this  story  she  will  learn  for  the  first 
time  that  George  C.  Gute  was  Knight  of  the  Bath  in  name  only. 


36  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

AN  EMBRYO  ARTIST 

JOE  W.  BAKER  is  known  from  one  end  of  Canada  to  the  other 
and  has  filled  numerous  positions  with  the  C.  P.  R.  as  well  as 
serving  his  own  city  in  an  official  capacity. 

Joe  is  now  with  the  C.  P.  R.  Telegraph  Company  at  Van- 
couver, B.  C,  and  like  many  others  likes  to  review  the  days 
when  he  was  a  struggling  artist. 

"I  began  to  learn  the  business  at  a  little  town  in  Ohio,  named 
Sazerac,"  began  Joe,  "and  after  a  few  months'  preparation  at  the 
depot  office,  where  I  served  as  messenger,  porter  and  general 
utility  man,  I  was  offered  a  position  at  Findlay,  Ohio,  some 
twenty-one  miles  up  the  line. 

"I  was  a  tall,  rawboned,  gawky,  gangling  boy  in  those  days. 
I  used  to  play  baseball  with  the  home  team,  played  football,  too, 
and  was  personally  known  to  all  the  farmer  boys  and  girls  within 
a  radius  of  ten  miles  of  Sazerac. 

"I  had  to  wait  for  my  passes  for  two  days,  during  which 
time  I  told  everyone  that  I  knew  of  my  intended  departure, 
inviting  one  and  all  to  come  and  see  me  off  on  the  train,  which 
they  promised  to  do. 

"At  prayer  meeting,  on  Thursday  evening,  the  good  min- 
ister announced  to  the  congregation  that  one  of  his  fold  was 
going  travehng,  a  long  way  off  (Findlay  was  just  twenty-one 
miles  away).  He  besought  the  earnest  prayers  of  his  congre- ' 
gation  for  this  young  man,  who  was  going  out  into  the  world 
to  seek  his  fortune.  They  were  also  invited  to  come  to  the  train 
and  wish  me  God-speed  on  my  journey.  His  entreaties  were 
touching  and  his  exhortations  mesmerized  me  into  a  state  of 
self-complacency,  and  I  felt  ready  to  do  and  dare  anything  to 
receive  such  encomiums. 

Next  day,  about  noon,  I  was  ready  to  start,  and  my  friends 
began  to  gather  to  bid  me  goodby. 

"There  they  were,  school  friends,  boys  and  girls,  my  school 
teacher,  the  boys  of  the  baseball  team,  old  men  and  women,  most 
of  them  bringing  some  token,  or  present,  with  them. 

"Good  old  Grandma  Smith  had  some  home-made  dough- 
nuts ;  Auntie  Harrison  baked  a  special  pumpkin  pie  for  me ;  then 
there  were  all  kinds  of  fruits,  until  I  had  enough  'eats'  in  sight 
to  fill  a  barrel.  Everybody  wished  me  well  and  made  me  promise 
to  write  often  and  I  suppose  that  I  must  have  promised  20; 
people  that  they  would  hear  from  me  at  least  once  a  week. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


37 


<Til^<5^f^ 


38  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

"The  train  for  Findlay  arrived,  stopped,  took  me  aboard 
amid  the  cheers  and  goodbys  of  my  friends,  and  we  were  off. 

"I  had  been  practicing  telegraphing  for  seven  months  and  I 
reckoned  that  I  was  far  removed  from  being  a  'ham,'  but  it  seems 
that  the  further  I  got  away  from  Sazerac,  the  less  my  confidence 
became  and  I  could  not  remember  even  how  to  make  my  letters. 
I  tried  to  think  if  the  figure  '3'  was  three  dots,  a  dash  and  a  dot, 
or  the  reverse.  Other  letters  came  up  the  same  way  and  I  could 
not  remember  if  the  letter  'm'  was  two  dashes  or  two  dots. 

"As  I  progressed  on  my  journey,  each  succeeding  mile 
seemed  to  take  away  a  little  more  and  more  of  my  knowledge 
of  the  art  of  telegraphy,  so,  when  the  engine  whistled  for  Find- 
lay,  I  found  that  I  remembered  how  to  make  the  letter  'e,'  but 
that  was  all. 

"Now,  then,  this  knowledge  was  not  sufficient  to  justify  me 
in  undertaking  the  position  as  night  operator  for  the  railroad 
company  at  Findlay,  but  what  could  I  do?  It  would  never  have 
done  to  return  to  Sazerac  and  be  held  up  as  a  laughing  stock, 
after  the  big  send-off  I  had  received.  No,  I'd  go  ahead  and 
bluff  it  through. 

"Meekly,  I  introduced  myself  to  the  day  operator,  who  took 
me  all  in. 

"  'You'll  have  a  train  order  at  midnight ;  you'll  have  to  sell 
tickets  for  No.  7  and  you  will  have  two  messages  to  send  from 
our  agent  early  in  the  morning.' 

"As  the  enormity  of  my  multifarious  duties  dawned  upon 
me,  I  wished  I  was  home,  and  I  sank  down  utterly  in  a  mental 
stupor. 

"The  day  operator,  a  merry  chap  by  the  way,  soon  left  the 
office,  placing  me  in  charge. 

"I  found  a  copy  of  the  Morse  alphabet  pasted  on  the  wall 
and  eagerly  began  to  study  it.  I  copied  off  the  alphabet  to  make 
sure  that  I  had  it. 

"Presently  the  dispatcher  began  to  call  me.  I  knew  him ; 
he  was  a  crank  and  his  name  was  M.  S.  Cozzens. 

"I  debated  in  my  mind  the  wisdom  of  answering  up,  but  his 
persistency  won  the  day.     I  answered  timidly,  *I,  I,  F.' 

"  'Is  Oppenheimer  there?'  came  the  question.  I  did  not  get 
what  he  said,  but  later  on  found  that  that  was  what  he  asked. 

"  'Yes,  sir,  I  am  the  operator,'  I  replied  confidently. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  ^{d 

"  *Is  Oppenheimer  there,  I  say?'  came  the  question,  but  I 
did  not  get  it  right. 

"  'Yes,  sir,  I  am  the  operator,'  I  replied. 

"  'What's  the  operator's  name?'  was  now  asked. 

"  'Quick  as  lightning,  I  replied,  'Joe  Wheeler  Baker.' 

"Some  more  sparring  ensued  and  a  message  was  sent  me. 

"Oh,  that  awful  message,  and  how  I  sweat  blood  while  re- 
ceiving it. 

"It  was  addressed  to  'Oppenheimer'  and  went  on  to  tell  him 
to  send  three  empties  on  No.  3  in  the  morning. 

"I  was  not  sure  about  the  figure  '3,'  so  I  wrote  the  letters 
"sn"  over  the  '3'  so  that  Oppenheimer  could  take  his  choice. 

"The  trying  ordeal  of  selling  tickets  came  next  and  I  found 
I  was  not  equal  to  the  task  and  told  the  travelers  that  they  could 
pay  on  board  the  passenger  train. 

"I  laid  down  and  slept  the  rest  of  the  night  and  when  the  day 
man  showed  up,  I  went  over  to  the  hotel. 

"I  hardly  had  got  into  bed  when  the  day  operator  came  over 
with  a  telegram  from  the  superintendent,  discharging  me  and 
enclosing  a  pass  back  to  Sazerac. 

"Imagine  my  feelings  to  have  to  go  back  and  face  good  old 
Grandma  Smith  and  the  other  ladies  who  had  remembered  me 
with  their  pastries,  and  how  could  I  meet  Alice  Brown,  to  whom 
I  had  drawn  such  a  vivid  picture  of  what  the  future  had  in  store 
for  us. 

"As  the  miles  homeward  were  being  re-traced,  the  knowl- 
edge of  telegraphy  returned  to  me,  and  by  the  time  Sazerac  was 
reached,  'Richard  was  himself  again,'  to  use  a  Shakespearian  ex- 
pression. 

"Quietly,  I  got  off  the  rear  car  and  quickly  I  crossed  the 
fields  to  my  mother's  home,  who  received  me  with  joy,  com- 
forting me  and  telling  me  she  was  glad  to  have  me  back. 

"I  remained  home  four  weeks,  practicing  continually,  an 
then  appeared  in  public  again. 

"This  time  I  was  offered  a  position  as  night  operator  at 
Napoleon,  which  proved  to  be  a  snap,  and  this  was  my  real  start 
as  a  railroad  operator. 

"Many  years  have  elapsed  since  these  occurrences  took 
place,  but  I  can  never  forget  that  awful  trying  night  at  Findlay, 
Ohio,"  and  Joe  Baker  smiled  his  7x9  smile. 


40 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


RENEWING  OLD  FRIENDSHIPS 

DURING  the  last  two  decades  we  have  been  asked  probably 
more  than  a  hundred  times  the  whereabouts  of  our  boy- 
hood friend,  Cassius  Hamlin  White.     These  inquiries  have 
reached  us  from  all  sections  of  the  country,  as  far  east  as  Massa- 
chusetts, and  as  far  south  as  Texas,  coming  ahke  from  operator, 
manager  and  superintendent. 

We  parted  company  with  Cass  White  in  Ogden,  Utah,  in 
1879,  and  did  not  see  him  again  until  August  of  the  present  year. 


C.  II.  WHITE 


MRS.  C.  H.  WHITE 


when  we  spent  three  very  delightful  days  at  his  home  in  Adrian, 
Mich.,  where  we  found  him  still  connected  with  the  Western 
Union  Telegraph  Company  in  that  city. 

As  a  young  man  Mr.  White  was  a  strictly  first-class  tele- 
graph operator  and  has  filled  positions  in  many  of  the  larger 
offices  of  the  country.  He  was  always  gentle,  kind  and  forbear- 
ing, loyal  to  his  friends  and  had  no  enemies.  These  habits  have 
followed  him  during  his  whole  career,  mellowing  as  the  years 
glided  by. 

It  was  then  a  double  pleasure  to  meet  and  greet  Mr.  White, 
with  nothing  to  disappoint  one  in  his  personality  or  character. 

Nearly  thirty  years  ago  Mr.  White  was  luck^  enough  to  win 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  4! 

Henrietta  Wells  for  a  life  partner,  and  together  they  have  trav- 
eled hand  in  hand  through  life's  journey. 

A  house  of  cheer,  a  house  of  happiness,  is  theirs,  and  "The 
American  Telegrapher"  hopes  to  see  them  celebrate  their  dia- 
mond wedding. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  700 

4  4\7'OU  have  heard  the  song,  'And  the  Mill  Will  Never  Grind 

X  Again  With  the  Water  Which  Has  Passed',"  said  Harry 
Dowling,  acting  chief  operator  of  the  Western  Union  at 
Washington,  D.  C,  to  us,  during  our  recent  visit  to  that  city. 
"Well,  I  heard  Walter  PhilHps  relate  a  story  once  which  put  me 
forcibly  in  mind  of  that  song,  although  the  story  and  song  had 
really  no  connection.     Here  it  is  : 

'T  was  traveling  some  years  ago  to  St.  Louis  and  on  board 
the  smoking  compartment  of  the  sleeper  I  met  Mr.  Phillips  and 
some  other  telegraph  celebrities  and  presently  we  fell  to  story- 
telling. 

"  'When  I  was  Associated  Press  operator  early  in  my  life,' 
said  Mr.  Phillips,  'there  happened  to  be  sickness  in  my  family  and 
I  was  very  much  worried  about  the  matter.  I  really  could  not 
keep  my  thoughts  off  of  the  sick  ones.  I  was  in  this  condition 
when  Boston  called  up  to  send  a  special  which  I  copied  and  sent, 
out  to  the  papers.  It  was  about  a  paper  mill  >vhicTi  had  burned 
down  that  morning  and  there  was  some  250  words  to  the  item. 

"  'Fifteen  minutes  later  the  telegrah  editor  rushed  in  and 
asked  me  what  was  meant  by  "700"  all  through  the  item'." 

To  the  initiated  no  explanation  is  necessary. 


42 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  43 


WITHOUT  PROPS 

By  W.  J.  Maguihe 

IT  was  one  of  those  glorious  days  in  early  spring  when  all  the 
windows  and  doors  were  opened  wide  to  let  in  the  balmy 
air,  that  the  little  fellow  came  to  us. 

Radiant  as  the  morn  was  Romeo,  aged  thirteen.  He  made 
the  seventh  messenger,  and  took  his  place  on  the  bench  with 
the  others  who  gave  him  the  "once-over"  in  that  droll,  quizzical 
way,  so  typical  of  seasoned  youngsters. 

I  had  seen  many  boys  but  never  one  like  him,  and  my  eyes 
were  busy  with  him  at  every  opportunity.  In  repose,  his  face 
was  beautiful,  and  when  animated,  it  was  angelic — no  other 
words  will  do.  The  more  I  looked  at  him,  the  more  sacrilegious 
his  uniform  appeared,  especially  the  cap,  with  its  big  and  ugly 
metalHc  badge.  It  seemed  like  wrapping  a  precious  jewel  in 
butcher's  paper.  But,  if  I  were  concerned  in  the  incongruity  of 
a  Botticelli  model  in  sweat-shop  clothes  and  inartistic  headpiece, 
there  was  something  else  that  troubled  me  more — it  was  the  oc- 
cupation we  had  to  offer  him,  for,  in  addition  to  delivering  tele- 
grams, this  divine  looking  little  creature  was  to  share  with  the 
other  boys  in  the  less  dignified  and  often  demoralizing  side  of 
the  work: — the  carrying  of  notes,  packages,  etc.  Such  service 
often  led  to  questionable  resorts,  to  put  it  mildly,  and  a  great  big 
corporation  engaged  in  such  traffic  and  employing  mere  children 
for  the  purpose,  was  a  repugnant  spectacle  to  me ;  but,  as  it 
was  an  evil  which  I  had  no  power  to  combat,  I  begged  the  de- 
livery clerk  to  protect  the  boy  in  every  possible  way. 

"Kidney"  was  the  captain  of  our  crew  by  common  consent. 
How  the  name  came  to  him  I  never  heard.  For  his  years — 
about  sixteen — he  was  well  educated ;  an  out  and  out  American 
boy  with  a  finely  shaped  head,  clean  cut,  natty,  and  good  to  look 
at.  Although  chiefly  interested  in  the  sporting  page,  he  also 
read  instructive  stuff  and  I  was  frequently  surprised  at  his  gen- 
eral information  and  good  ideas.  This  side  of  him  was  care- 
fully concealed  from  his  bench  mates.  To  them  he  was  the  in- 
troducer of  the  latest  slang  and  the  arbiter  of  all  things  per- 
taining to  sport,  and,  having  been  connected  with  a  theater  for 
a  brief  period,  he  never  was  so  satisfied  as  when  airing  his 


44  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

knowledge  of  props,  flies,  wings,  wing-cuts,  streamers,  three 
sheet  posters,  etc.,  etc.  His  opinion  of  various  actors  was 
Hstened  to  without  interruption  by  the  other  boys.  Hadn't  he 
been  on  the  stage  himself  and  didn't  he  know  what  he  was  talk- 
ing about?  Vaudeville,  of  course,  was  meat  and  drink  to  him, 
and  there  were  few  top-liners  that  he  did  not  know,  at  least,  by 
reputation.  He  had  his  favorites,  but  the  one  that  pleased  him 
best  was  the  chap  that  strolled  on  in  his  street  clothes  and  put 
over  a  song  or  a  story  that  gripped  the  house.  "Why,  that 
gink,"  he  would  say,  "did  a  turn  without  props  that  made  'em 
sob  or  holler.  No  spotlight  for  him !  Just  the  boards  he  stood 
on  and  his  own  voice." 

We  soon  learned  that  little  Romeo  was  the  greatest  tip- 
gatherer  we  ever  had.  He  even  got  tips  for  delivering  telegrams 
— which  was  unusual — but  for  carrying  notes  and  packages, 
his  tips  were  more  numerous  and  much  larger  than  those  gen- 
erally received.  Where  other  boys  got  dimes,  Romeo  got  quar- 
ters and  half  dollars.  His  own  generosity  was  something  rather 
new  to  his  mates.  He  was  constantly  bringing  in  large  paper 
bags  filled  with  fruit  or  candy,  and  of  these  all  were  urged  to 
help  themselves. 

One  day  a  gentleman  from  one  of  the  offices  in  the  building 
came  to  me  in  a  flustered  state,  explaining  that  he  had  lost  a 
valuable  ring  which  he  was  quite  sure  was  on  his  desk  when  a 
messenger  had  been  in  his  ofhce.  Upon  quiet  inquiry,  I  learned 
that  Romeo  had  delivered  a  message  to  him  shortly  before  the 
complaint  was  made,  and,  with  my  mind  on  the  excessive  amount 
of  fruit  and  candy,  this  information  disturbed  me  considerably; 
but,  having  gone  through  many  cases  of  unjust  suspicion,  I  was 
not  ready  to  form  an  opinion,  much  less  make  an  accusation,  no 
matter  what  the  circumstances  were.  The  boys,  however,  had 
heard  the  excited  man  at  the  counter,  and  they  whispered  know- 
ingly among  themselves,  all  but  "Kidney,"  who  had  become 
Romeo's  staunch  champion. 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  me  when  the  owner  of  the  ring 
appeared  a  few  hours  later  and  with  smiling  apology,  said  he 
had  found  his  treasure  in  one  of  his  pockets. 

When  Romeo  had  been  with  us  a  few  months  we  discovered 
that  he  had  two  pronounced  failings  ;  otherwise,  he  was  almost 
perfect.  His  bump  of  location  was  poorly  developed,  which  fre- 
quently caused  him  to  ride  many  blocks  out  of  his  way ;  he  also 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH 


45 


r^-^-.«(i^' 


--ycM 


46  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

• 

was  easily  allured  by  street  excitement  of  any  kind.  But  as  he 
was  such  a  little  terror  for  speed,  he  often  made  up  for  such 
losses  of  time.  He  frequently  had  colHsions  with  other  riders 
or  with  vehicles,  and  came  in  with  scratches,  cuts  or  bruises,  but 
bore  all  such  mishaps  without  a  whimper.  There  was  nothing 
effeminate  about  him  but  his  face.  He  took  good  care  of  him- 
self in  a  scrimmage,  but  never  started  anything  himself.  He 
loved  harmony  and  happiness  and  wanted  others  to  be  happy. 

One  morning  my  stomach  was  in  a  rebellious  mood  and  I 
came  to  the  office  without  breakfast.  About  lo  o'clock  I  thought 
it  advisable  to  coax  myself  to  eat  a  few  bites,  so  I  called  Romeo 
in.  There  was  a  little  cafe  a  few  blocks  from  the  office  where 
they  made  excellent  coffee  and  where  everything  was  daintily 
served.  I  cautioned  Romeo  to  go  there,  and  then  gave  him 
minute  instructions.  I  wanted  a  pot  of  coffee,  some  dry  toast, 
cut  thin  and  well  browned,  and  some  grapes.  The  grapes  were 
to  be  put  in  a  large  bowl  and  iced.  "Have  the  toast  and  coffee 
carefully  covered  to  keep  them  hot,  and  be  particular  about  the 
grapes,  Romeo ;  have  them  smothered  in  ice." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Romeo. 

For  so  simple  an  order  he  was  gone  a  very  long  time,  it 
seemed  to  me,  but  finally  came  rushing  in,  carrying  a  dinky 
little  battered  tray,  on  which  reposed,  without  protection,  a 
frightened  looking  ham  sandwich  and  a  cup  of  very  red  tea. 

When  I  asked  in  a  disgusted  tone  what  he  meant  by  bring- 
ing me  such  things,  he  replied :     "That's  what  you  told  me." 

A  little  later,  I  said :     "What  about  the  grapes,  Romeo?" 

"Oh,  yes,  they  didn't  have  no  grapes."  This  without  a  touch 
of  resentment  in  his  voice.  Romeo  evidently  had  followed  a 
band,  and  forgotten  his  commission.  But  the  ham  sandwich  and 
cup  of  tea  cured  me  by  absent  treatment.  I  laughed  so  heartily 
and  often  that,  by  noon,  I  was  ready  for  chops  and  a  bottle  of 
ale.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  love  the  lad,  no  matter 
what  he  did. 

He  was  full  of  quaint  sayings  and  odd  expressions.  Once  I 
sent  him  outside  to  see  if  it  were  raining,  as  it  was  difficult  to 
tell  from  the  office  windows.  Returning,  he  came  very  close 
to  me  as  he  always  did  when  he  had  anything  to  say,  and,  press- 
ing the  ends  of  his  fingers  together,  as  if  taking  a  pinch,  he  said, 
in  his  earnest,  engaging  way:  "It's  just  little,  small  rain,  but 
the  sidewalk's  wet." 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH 


47 


.  Romeo,  however,  created  envy  and  jealousy ;  the  other  boys 
could  not  understand  v^hy  they  did  not  get  one-quarter  of  the 
tips  that  he  got.  They  said  he  worked  a  system.  We  had  one 
boy  who  at  first  was  known  as  "Potato  Pete,"  but  later  cut  down 
to  "Potatis."  He  had  a  queer  passion  for  cold  boiled  potatoes, 
carried  them  in  his  pocket  and  always  had  a  paper  of  salt.  "Po- 
tatis"  was  a  cynic,  and  looked  like  a  cold  potato,  but  was  an 
excellent  messenger.     Whenever  we  had  a   bit   of  unflinchinjj 


E.  C.  BOILEAU 


GEO.  C.  MAYNARD 


business  to  do,  such  as  collecting  small  bills  that  were  overdue, 
"Potatis"  was  put  on  the  job,  and  he  invariably  came  back  with 
the  coin. 

During  a  heated  discussion  that  I  overheard,  "Potatis"  ac- 
cused Romeo  of  Hmping  into  places  where  he  was  called,  making 
believe  he  had  hurt  himself.  "I  know  his  game,"  said  "Potatis," 
"he  works  the  sympathy  racket  all  the  time.  No  wonder  he 
gets  the  tips." 

Others  said  he  always  made  a  whirlwind  entrance,  panting 
and  blowing  and  mopping  his  face. 

"Aw,  I'm  onto  the  little  mutt.  He  cries  and  searches  his 
pockets  as  if  he  lost  a  quarter.  I  seen  him  do  it.  The  women 
all  fall  for  him,"  said  "Piggy"  Flynn. 

Finally,  "Kidney"  spoke  up.     "You  dubs  make  me  sick.    You 


48  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

eat  the  kid's  candy  and  bananas  and  then  roast  him  the  minute 
he's  out  of  sight.  I  tell  you  the  kid's  on  the  level  and  he  works 
without  props.  Without  props — See !  I  saw  him  get  a  dollar 
once— a  whole  dollar.  It  was  over  in  the  Black  Cat.  Jake,  the 
barkeeper,  was  wrapping  up  a  bottle  of  'Green  River'  for  me  to 
take  to  'Big  Liz' — you  know  the  dame,  Totatis' !" 

"Yes,  I  know  the  old  skirt." 

"Well,  as  I  was  saying,  I  was  waiting  for  Jake  when  the 
kid  came  in  to  answer  a  call.  Jake  sent  him  over  to  a  fat  guy 
who  was  sitting  at  one  of  the  tables  in  front  of  a  three-pound 
steak.  The  kid  just  stood  there,  natural  like,  with  his  cap  in  his 
hand.  When  the  guy  got  his  billet  doux  ready,  he  pulled  a  dollar 
bill  out  of  a  long  wallet.  First  he  looked  at  the  cashier,  then 
he  looked  at  the  bill,  then  he  looked  at  the  kid  and  said :  'You 
win,'  and  passed  him  the  engraving.  You're  not  in  his  class. 
I'm  not  in  his  class.  There  ain't  a  telegraph  messenger  in  the 
world  in  his  class."  It  was  just  fun  to  hear  "Kidney"  when  he 
became  theatrical. 

"Another  thing,"  said  Kidney.  "You're  a  miserable  bunch 
of  one-night  pikers,  and  I  don't  want  one  of  you  ever  to  speak 
to  me  again." 

This  speech  created  consternation  and  ended  the  discussion. 

In  a  confidential  way,  Romeo  once  came  to  me  and  asked 
if  I  would  keep  something  for  him  until  he  was  ready  to  go 
home.  When  I  gladly  consented,  he  handed  me  an  envelope  on 
which  he  had  written :     "$8.20  for  my  dear  mother." 

"That,"  said  he,  "is  my  regular  pay  and  my  tips  what  1 
haven't  spent.  I  give  it  to  my  mother  every  week,  and  I'll  bet 
you  can't  guess  what  this  is,"  as  he  held  up  a  little  round  pack- 
age, tied  with  a  ribbon.  "This  is  a  birthday  present  for  my 
father.  It's  a  celluloid  collar — one  of  them  shiny  ones,  you 
know.  It's  the  finest  thing  in  the  world ;  when  it's  dirty,  all  you 
have  to  do  is  spit  on  it  and  rub  it  with  your  handkerchief  and 
you  have  a  clean  collar.     That  will  just  suit  father." 

One  day  I  looked  up  from  my  work  and  found  Romeo's 
mother  at  the  counter.  I  never  saw  her  before,  but  recognized 
her  instantly.  There  was  no  mistaking  that  face.  The  resem- 
blance was  remarkable.  Only  one  difference  was  noticeable : 
her  eyes  were  compelling.     Romeo's  were  appealing. 

In  broken  English,  with  a  delicious  French  accent,  she  said 
she  had  brought  her  boy's  lunch  which  he  had  forgotten.     A 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


49 


K.J^ 


%^ 


B 


\J^</)^Li^yXyCJ~ 


rmifaiLf-,^ 


50  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

chair  was  placed  for  her  and  I  was  glad  of  the  opportunity  to 
tell  her  how  much  we  thought  of  the  little  chap.  She  told  me 
she  had  been  in  America  ten  years  and  had  come  from  Nice, 
where  her  boy  was  born.  While  we  were  chatting,  Romeo 
bounded  in  and,  at  sight  of  his  mother,  threw  his  arms  around 
her  neck  and  kissed  her  again  and  again.  The  boys  tittered, 
but  Romeo  was  unabashed.  His  eyes  seemed  to  say :  "Boys, 
this  is  my  mother.     Isn't  she  lovely?" 

When  the  delightful  scene  was  over,  he  asked  permission 
to  go  with  his  mother  for  a  few  moments,  and  I  watched  him  as, 
with  the  grace  of  a  courtier,  he  escorted  her  to  the  car  and,  with 
uncovered  head,  bade  her  good-bye. 

That  winter  was  a  severe  one.  When  the  streets  were  not 
coated  with  snow  or  ice,  they  were  sloppy,  and  the  boys'  wheels 
were  frequently  laid  up  for  repairs.  "Kidney"  and  Romeo  per- 
sisted in  riding  when  it  was  dangerous  to  do  so,  Romeo  being  the 
more  venturesome.  On  several  occasions  I  forbade  him  the  use 
of  his  wheel,  although  he  begged  hard  for  the  privilege.  Spring 
had  come  again  and  Romeo  had  been  with  us  a  little  over  a  year 
when  Charlie  Brown,  the  delivery  clerk,  received  the  following 
letter  through  the  mail : 

"Mr.  Brown  tell  the  other  man  i  can't  spel  his  name,  but  tell 
him  to  excuse  me  for  today  that  i  have  got  an  ofel  bad  ney  it  has 
a  hole  in  it  big  as  this  (here  he  drew  a  wavering  circle  about  the 
size  of  a  quarter)  this  is  what  i  am  going  to  tell  you  about  it  is 
that  i  was  trying  to  wride  to  work  and  my  bycycle  slip  from 
yonder  me  and  i  struck  my  ney  on  the  curve  stone  and  i  cant 
hardly  walk  so  i  am  tell-you  the  trute  so  please  let  me  of  today 
i  will  be  to  work  in  the  morning  earli  if  my  ney  gets  better  you 
know  that  the  car  cut  the  hole  in  it  i  am  sorry  that  i  dident  come 
to  work  this  morning  this  letter  is  from 

"Romeo  Bendelari." 

The  next  morning  came,  and  the  next,  and  many  more  morn- 
ings, but  no  little  Romeo  came  to  brighten  them  with  his  smiles. 

Kidney  was  sent  to  his  home  with  a  little  token  and  a  letter 
of  sympathy  and  cheer,  to  which  all  of  us,  including  many  ad- 
mirers in  the  building,  signed  our  names.  He  found  the  little 
fellow  battling  with  pain,  but  left  him  smiling  and  hopeful. 

After  several  days  of  expectancy,  a  note  in  a  feminine  hand 
arrived  which  read: 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH 


61 


"Monsieur  le  Managaire: 

"The  money  I  receive.  I  mean  for  come  make  the  explain, 
but  the  heart  I  have  not.  My  leetle  Romeo  she  is  dead  and  bury. 
Excuse  please  the  lettaire  I  write  not  parfaitement  the  lan- 
guage Eengleesh.     Merci  beaucoup. 

"Accept  please  the  apolozhee. 

"Phelise  Bendelari." 

I  could  not  trust  myself  to  speak,  but  with  trembling  hand 
wrote  on  a  blank: 

"The  dearest  boy  we  ever  knew  is  gone  from  us  forever. 
Little  Romeo  is  dead  and  buried." 

This  I  handed  to  Charlie,  who,  with  deep  emotion,  passed  it 
out  to  the  boys.  They  spoke  in  hushed  tones.  "Kidney"  went 
out  into  the  street  with  his  grief  and  was  gone  some  time. 
Later  they  held  a  consultation  and  then  took  Charlie  into  their 
confidence.  They  were  going  to  find  out  where  Romeo  was 
buried  and  take  flowers  to  his  grave. 

On  the  following  Sunday  morning,  while  the  church  bells 
were  ringing,  six  boys,  laden  with  flowers,  arrived  at  the  ceme- 


BUFFALO  WESTERN  UNION,  1915 


52  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

tery,  where,  in  a  remote  corner,  under  a  blossoming  dogwood, 
they  found  the  resting  place  of  all  that  was  mortal  of  their  late 
comrade.  Tenderly  they  covered  the  spot  with  roses ;  then,  led 
by  "Kidney"  they  doffed  their  caps,  and  kneeHng  reverently, 
whispered  to  the  breeze  scraps  of  the  prayers  their  mothers 
taught  them — a  touching  tribute  to  the  memory  of  a  nature  too 
gentle  and  artless  for  them  always  to  understand. 

Many  years  have  come  and  gone  since  that  day.  Of  that 
little  band  of  boys  I  know  the  career  of  only  one.  "Kidney," 
his  bench-name  long  since  smothered  by  dignity  and  authority, 
now  commands  many  men,  and  it  is  true  to  say  that  justice 
nicely  blended  with  consideration,  is  freely  dispensed  from  his 
high  seat,  and  in  the  language  of  his  old  days  he  still  knows 
when  a  gink  works  with  or  without  props. 

In  my  rambles  in  the  spring,  I  never  see  the  resplendent 
dogwood  by  the  country  roadside  without  thinking  of  the  little 
mound  of  fresh  earth  covered  with  roses  in  that  peaceful  spot 
overlooking  the  silent  river,  and  I  like  to  believe  that  some- 
where there  is  a  big,  sunny-faced  Italian  with  silvering  hair, 
whose  most  precious  possession  is  a  wonderful,  shiny  collar,  and 
by  his  side  as  he  sits  in  the  twilight  is  the  sharer  of  all  his  joys 
and  sorrows,  into  whose  brilliant  eyes  has  crept,  to  mingle  with 
the  flash,  the  wistful,  appealing  look  of  the  little  child  of  long 
ago. 


QF  THE  TELEGRAPH  53 


SECTION  II. 

STORIES  OF  THE  SUNNY  SOUTH 

By  Jepp  W.  Hayes 

A  TRAVELING  AUDITOR'S  EXPERIENCE 

THE  life  of  a  special  agent  is  not  a  happy  one,  as  Mr.  Sween- 
ey, traveling  auditor  for  the  W.  U.  at  Dallas,  Texas,  will 
relate. 

"Some  years  ago,"  said  Mr.  Sweeney,  "1  was  sent  out  to 
check  up  the  Ogden  office. 

"It  was  my  first  assignment  alone  and  I  was  very  nervous. 
I  walked  up  and  down  the  street  several  times  with  the  tele- 
graph office  as  my  objective  point,  finally  mustering  up  suffi- 
cient courage  to  enter. 

"Mildly  did  I  ask  for  the  manager,  who  came  to  the  coun- 
ter, with  the  inquiry,  'What  do  you  want,  kid?' 

"I  handed  the  big  fellow  my  card,  which  he  read.  Coming 
around  to  my  side,  he  queried,  *I  say,  kid,  are  you  an  A.  P.  A.?' 

"Vehemently,  I  denied  the  soft  impeachment. 

"Again  the  big  fellow  inquired  'Are  you  a  Mason?' 

"I  repHed  in  the  negative,  when  he  ejaculated  in  a  loud 
voice,  'Then  tell  me,  how  did  a  fellow  with  your  name  get  this 
kind  of  a  job?" 

:{c     :|(     ;)c     :(:     :|c 

Some  weeks  later,  Mr.  Sweeney  was  in  Colorado,  and,  in 
company  with  Mr.  Carlson,  essayed  a  ride  to  the  top  of  Pike's 
Peak. 

They  were  the  first  ones  of  the  season  to  make  the  ascent, 
and  the  last  200  feet  were  compelled  to  walk  through  the  slushy 
snow  up  to  their  waist  line. 

Reaching  the  summit,  the  first  objects  of  interest  were  two 
graves,  one  commemorating  the  discoverer  of  Pike's  Peak  and 
the  other  "Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Patrick  O'Rourke,"  one  of 
the  first  miners  to  make  the  ascent. 

"See  there,"  said  Mr.  Sweeney  to  his  companion,  "you  see 
the  Irish  are  always  on  top." 

A  stranger  heard  the  remark,  and  quickly  responded,  "Yes, 
the  Irish  are  on  top  now,  but  wait  till  Guggenheimer  buys  up 
the  old  peak,  and  then  you'll  hear  'Rouse  mit  the  Irish,' " 


54  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

THE  FLYING  SQUADRON 

THE  Western  Union  Telegraph  Company  ramifies  every  State 
and  section  of  our  glorious  country,  but  there  are  some 
States  and  sections  where  the  company's  employes  do  not, 
or,  rather,  did  not,  show  strict  fealty  to  the  company,  evidently 
believing  that  they  were  too  far  from  headquarters  to  be  under 
immediate  jurisdiction. 

This  condition  of  affairs  was  once  the  case,  but  it  is  the  case 
no  longer. 

"The  Flying  Squadron"  was  a  team  of  a  dozen  merry  fel- 
lows, selected  each  for  some  pecuHar  quaUfication,  which  would 
make  him  valuable  in  the  combination,  and  the  combination  was 
invincible. 

For  instance,  one  was  a  cracker-jack  as  a  chief  operator, 
another  would  be  a  jo-dandy  as  a  manager,  the  third  was  a  heavy 
weight  when  it  came  to  sizing  up  the  cashier's  accounts,  and  so 
it  was  all  the  way  up  and  down  the  Hne. 

It  was  considered  to.  be  an  excellent  stunt  to  send  these 
dozen  Hvely  fellows  over  the  division  to  inject  the  proper  spirit 
into  the  managers,  chief  operators  and  other  employes. 

Down  would  swoop  this  "awful"  Flying  Squadron  upon  an 
unsuspecting  office,  taking  complete  charge  of  affairs  and  rele- 
gating the  regular  force  to  the  woods,  while  putting  them 
through  the  tormenting  process  of  investigating  their  office. 

All  departments  would  be  gone  over  thoroughly,  and  the 
next  day  it  would  be  something  else. 

It  is  not  our  purpose  to  criticise  or  to  ask  if  these  visits  were 
of  benefit  to  the  service,  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  much  val- 
uable information  was  secured  and  a  needed  shaking  up  all  round 
did  some  good. 

During  the  evenings  the  Flying  Squadron  would  make  up 
their  individual  reports  to  their  chairman,  who,  in  turn,  would 
revise  the  same,  making  up  one  comprehensive  report  which 
would  be  forwarded  each  evening,  so  that  every  day's  work  was 
complete  and  mailed  to  the  general  manager  before  midnight. 

These  reports  were  generally  compiled  during  the  dinner 
hour  and  at  the  dinner  table,  which  was  the  occasion  of  a  good 
time.  Stories  were  told  and  narratives  were  related,  and  some- 
times songs  were  sung  by  the  merry  members  of  the  Squadron. 
And  so  the  days  passed  by. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


56 


^  x^.  rf:-?. 


56  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

It  occurred,  in  course  of  their  ramblings,  they  visited  the 
metropolis  of  one  of  our  greatest  States,  putting  up  at  the  St. 
Anthony  hotel,  a  hostelry  unequalled  in  the  country. 

The  usual  doings  at  the  office  and  over  the  city  had  been 
enacted  and  the  happy  dozen  repaired  to  the  hotel  to  make  up 
their  usual  report  and  enjoy  a  good  dinner. 

The  boys  were  unusually  merry  this  evening,  and  their  jokes 
and  laughter  attracted  the  attention  of  a  quiet,  unobtrusive 
young  man  sitting  at  an  adjoining  table. 

Addressing  a  waiter  the  young  man  asked  him  to  invite  the 
Merry  Squadron  to  take  a  drink  with  him. 

"Take  a  drink  with  him?"  said  Logan,  "y^s,  we  will  take  a 
drink  with  anyone,"  and  that  was  the  concensus  of  opinion  of 
his  companions. 

Five  minutes  later  the  stranger  repeated  the  invitation  to 
have  a  drink,  which  was  again  accepted,  and  presently  the  gen- 
erous stranger  came  over  to  the  telegraph  table  and  addressed 
the  boys,  stating  that  he  was  quite  interested  in  their  merry 
jokes  and  witticisms  and  that  he  would  like  to  get  better  ac- 
quainted and  wouldn't  they  join  him  at  dinner  the  next  evening. 

Objections  were  raised,  "We  don't  know  you."  "We  don't 
like  to  impose  on  your  hospitality."  "We  have  not  the  time." 
But  to  all  these  objections  the  stranger  had  but  one  reply  to 
make,  and  that  was,  "Name  the  hour,"  "Name  the  day." 

Finally  Mr.  Smith  decided  that  the  following  evening  would 
suit  and  asked  if  it  was  thought  that  there  could  be  a  general 
hunger  at,  say,  7  130  p.  m.  The  boys  thought  that  by  trying  very 
hard  they  might  be  able  to  get  up  an  appetite,  and  the  invitation 
was  accepted. 

The  word  was  passed  around  the  next  day  that  the  dinner 
was  to  be  a  full  dress  affair,  and  the  members  of  the  Flying 
Squadron  ransacked  the  various  costumers  to  rent  a  dress  suit, 
as  high  as  $20  being  paid  as  a  premium  for  the  proper  garb. 

Dinner  was  ready  at  the  appointed  time  and  the  host  and 
the  guests  were  on  hand. 

How  can  I  describe  the  appointments  of  the  dining  room? 

The  dinner  was  served  in  one  of  the  hotel's  largest  private 
dining  rooms  and  the  room  itself  was  lavishly  decorated  with 
roses.  A  string  band,  completely  hidden  in  a  bower  of  roses, 
discoursed   sweet  and  low  music.     The  table   was   a   veritable 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH  57 

flower  garden,  each  guest  having  a  bouquet  of  rare  flowers  at 
his  plate. 

Two  athletic  girls  sat  in  a  corner  half  concealed  from  view 
by  the  omnipresent  roses.  They  had  been  engaged  to  interest 
the  guests  with  their  terpsichorean  maneuvers. 

The  host,  who  now  introduced  himself  as  "Mister  Howard," 
was  smihng  and  complacent  and  attentive  to  the  wishes  of  his 
guests. 

Dinner  was  presently  served  and  it  was  surely  a  marvel  of 
the  caterer's  art.  Nothing  was  neglected  to  tempt  their  appe- 
tites, and  full  justice  was  done  to  the  banquet.  Everyone  was 
merry  and  glad  to  be  there. 

Cafe  noir  was  finally  reached  and  served  with  cognac,  and 
then  the  cigars  were  passed  around,  followed  shortly  by  cham- 
pagne, which  flowed  in  plentitude. 

The  presence  of  the  wine  warmed  the  cockles  of  each  heart, 
and  more  interest  became  manifest  in  the  personaHty  of  the  host. 

"I'll  wager  he  is  a  Lord  in  disguise,"  said  Mr.  Smith. 
"Lord!    Why  not  say  Prince,"  ejaculated  Mr.  Cole.     "He  can 
certainly  be  of  no  lesser  degree  than  a  Prince." 

Others  of  the  party  thought  he  might  be  a  Baron  or  a  Count, 
but  it  was  evident  that  their  host  was  some  pumpkins,  and  he 
was  entitled  to  every  attention  which  might  be  coming  to  him. 

Incidentally,  the  host  mentioned,  in  an  off-hand  way,  some- 
thing regarding  the  telephone  company,  and  immediately  the  as- 
semblage pricked  up  their  ears. 

"Ah,  that's  it ;  he  is  connected  with  the  telephone  company," 
and  instantly  greater  attentions  were  showered  on  "Lord"  How- 
ard, and  he  was  plied  with  questions  with  a  view  to  disclosing 
his  identity  or  his  connection  with  the  great  monopoly.  But 
"Lord"  Howard  was  not  to  be  caught,  and  by  adroit  replies  to  all 
inquiries  he  managed  to  have  them  understand  that  he  was  deep- 
ly interested  in  the  telephone  company.  Mr.  Howard  would  give 
utterance  to  a  remark  occasionally  which  had  all  the  earmarks 
of  a  person  accustomed  to  telegraphic  lore,  and  all  were  eager 
to  do  him  reverence  and  show  allegiance. 

But  the  night  wore  on.  The  ladies  displayed  their  beautiful 
limbs  in  the  artistic  dance,  a  couple  of  lusty  singers  warbled  the 
latest  popular  songs,  and  wine  glasses  were  filled  and  emptied 
with  remarkable  precision  and  speed. 

"With  your  kind  permission.  Prince  Howard,"  quoth  King 


58  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

Cole,  as  he  drained  his  glass,  and  the  coterie  then  followed  suit. 

Approaching  Mr.  Smith  at  this  juncture,  "Lord"  Howard 
quietly  remarked:  "I  say,  my  friend,  I  have  a  draft  for  $2,000 
which  I'd  Hke  to  have  you  endorse,  as  I  have  but  little  ready 
money  with  me." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  my  Lord,  just  let's  wait  till  we  get  up- 
stairs and  I'll  endorse  you  for  $10,000,"  and  "Lord"  Howard  slunk 
away. 

It  was  now  getting  along  toward  2  :oo  a.  m.  and  many  of  the 
guests  were  carried  off  to  bed  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  watch- 
ful porter. 

It  was  a  hot  night  and,  as  "Lord"  Howard  sauntered  through 
the  lobby  of  the  hotel,  hatless,  he  remarked  to  the  night  clerk 
that  he  believed  he  would  walk  out  and  get  a  few  breaths  of 
fresh  air. 

Quickly  he  walked  to  the  corner  and  entering  a  taxicab,  or- 
dered the  chauffeur  to  drive  as  speedily  as  possible  to  a  place 
three  miles  distant  from  the  hotel,  where  he  was  dismissed,  How- 
ard loitering  for  a  few  minutes  to  make  sure  he  was  not  ob- 
served. Then  he  walked  down  the  street  for  two  blocks,  quickly 
disappearing  inside  a  modest  looking  lodging  house. 

But,  oh,  what  a  difference  in  the  morning! 

About  10  o'clock  the  members  of  the  Flying  Squadron  began 
pulling  themselves  together.  All  complained  that  their  hair 
pulled,  but,  nevertheless,  they  all  agreed  that  they  had  had  the 
time  of  their  lives. 

"Where  is  the  Lord?"  queried  one.  "Where  is  the  Prince?" 
asked  another.  "I  wonder  where  the  Baron  is?"  questioned  a 
third,  when  in  came  the  landlord  of  the  hotel. 

"I  can  tell  you  something  about  the  'Lord,'  the  'Prince,'  the 
'Baron',"  he  ejaculated  savagely.  "I  have  just  come  from  his 
room  and  I  found  him  gone.  He  left  a  little  hand  satchel,  which 
I  opened  and  found  it  contained  a  bath  towel;  only  this  and 
nothing  more." 

The  telegraphers  were  tempted  to  laugh  at  the  hotel  man's 
discomfiture,  but  that  functionary  quickly  said: 

"Oh,  this  is  not  a  laughing  matter  with  you.  You  fellows  have 
eaten  it,  you  have  drank  it,  you  have  enjoyed  it;  now  you  pay 
for  it." 

This  was  a  bay  horse  of  another  color,  and  laughter  gave 
way  to  serious  consideration.    A  few  minutes'  earnest  talk  be- 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


69 


^ 


t^jeUj^m^tj 


Tn 


No.  1 


60  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

tween  the  landlord  and  the  members  of  the  Flying  Squadron  con- 
vinced the  latter  that  it  would  be  a  wise  stunt  to  settle  the  bill 
and  swallow  their  chagrin  as  becomingly  as  they  had  swallowed 
the  wine  on  the  previous  night.  The  ''invisible"  string  band,  the 
"athletic"  dancing  girls,  the  "lusty"  singers,  all  came  in  with 
their  bills,  which  were  duly  audited  by  the  most  competent  aud- 
itor of  the  party  and  arrangements  were  speedily  made  for  the 
settlement  of  the  same,  the  landlord  assisting  in  financing  the 
arrangement. 

The  next  day  the  members  of  the  Flying  Squadron  moved 
camp  to  an  adjacent  city,  leaving  one  of  their  number  to  "clean 
up." 

Eternal  secrecy  had  been  sworn  to  by  all  of  the  members  of 
the  devoted  Squadron,  and  the  local  press  was  "seen,"  but  they 
had  no  knowledge  of  the  incident. 

Two  days  later,  however,  the  Morning  Expostulator  came 
out  with  a  full  page  account  of  the  elaborate  dinner  at  the  swell 
hotel,  going  into  the  most  minute  details  of  the  affair. 

Instantly  the  lone  member  wired  his  colleagues  that  the  cat 
was  out  of  the  bag  and  asked  for  instructions,  which  speedily 
came.  He  was  told  to  buy  up  the  street  circulation  and  then  to 
go  to  the  newspaper  office,  ascertain  if  the  forms  had  been  un- 
locked; if  so,  to  buy  up  the  entire  edition  and  consign  it  to  the 
furnace  fire. 

This  was  an  additional  expenditure,  but  it  seemed  necessary, 
and  after  it  was  over  all  breathed  easier. 

A  week  had  passed  by,  wlfen  one  evening  the  general  man- 
ager unexpectedly  dropped  in  just  at  dinner  time,  and  while  each 
member  of  the  Squadron  was  busily  engaged  in  making  up  his 
report. 

The  word  was  passed  around  that  for  the  present  jigwater 
must  be  eschewed. 

The  general  manager  was  very  much  interested  in  each 
man's  labor  and  in  the  general  report,  and  he  so  expressed  him- 
self, complimenting  each  man  on  his  good  work,  but  winding  up 
his  address  with  the  remark,  "Yes,  gentlemen,  you  have  done 
very  well,  and  I  am  pleased  with  your  work,  but  there  is  one 
thing  that  does  not  strike  me  right ;  you  don't  seem  to  treat  me 
with  as  much  hospitality  as  you  did  Xord'  Howard." 

We  will  now  draw  the  veil  over  what  followed,  but  there 
were  no  severe  consequences.     The  boys  had  their  fun,  paid  for 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


61 


it,  and  that  was  all  there  was  to  it.  "We  have  danced  and  we 
have  paid  the  piper,"  explained  one. 

The  above  occurrence  took  place  a  little  over  three  years 
ago,  and  all  of  those  who  participated  in  the  memorable  banquet 
will  be  ready  to  laugh  over  it  when  they  read  this  account  of  it. 

"Lord,"  "Prince,"  "Baron,"  "Count"  Howard  turned  out  to 
be  merely  a  waiter  in  one  of  the  restaurants  patronized  by  the 
telegraph  boys.  From  association  with  them  and  listening  to 
their  shop  talk  he  had  managed  to  gather  enough  telegraph  lore 
to  beguile  even  the  keen  members  of  the  Flying  Squadron,  and 
give  the  writer  an  opportunity  for  showing  "what  fools  we  mor- 
tals be." 

To  those  sworn  to  secrecy  I  can  but  say  that  there  is  noth- 
ing hidden  but  what  must  be  uncovered,  and  in  every  assemblag-c 
"Bobbie"  Burns  will  tell  you  that — 

"There's  a  chiel  amang  ye  takin'    nates." 


TAKE  Z.  SUDA 

4  4?  AM  the  only  Japanese  telegraph  operator  in  the  United 
1     States ;   I   work   for  the  biggest  and  the  best   telegraph 
company  in  the  world,  and  you  have  to  give  me  your 
business." 


TAKE  Z.  SUDA 


Thus  spoke  Take  Z.  Suda,  addressing  the  manager  of  the 


62  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

greatest  Japanese  cotton  buying  institution  in  this  country,  lo- 
cated at  Dallas,  Texas. 

Mr.  Suda's  speech  and  the  earnest  talk  he  gave  his  country- 
men resulted  in  Suda's  employers  enjoying  a  coveted  patronage, 
frequently  but  ineffectually  solicited  previously. 

Mr.  Take  Z.  Suda  was  born  in  Tokio,  Japan,  35  years  ago, 
and  came  to  this  country  v^ith  General  Fred  Grant  after  the 
Spanish  war.  He  settled  down  in  Wichita,  Kan.,  where  he 
taught  himself  the  English  language  and  the  art  of  telegraphy. 

He  works  side  by  side  with  his  white  brother  in  the  Dallas 
office.  No  thought  of  race  hatred  is  engendered  by  his  presence 
among  the  Texas  brothers,  who  are  glad  to  have  the  young  man 
in  the  office. 


"LEAD  ME  TO  IT" 

WE  knew  him  away  back  in  '75,  when  we  were  running  The 
Electric  in  St.  Louis  and  he  was  a  lineman,  somewhere 
in  Texas,  at  Paris,  or  Palestine. 

His  name  was  Michael  Connoly,  and  although  his  chirog- 
raphy  was  crude,  his  articles  were  gems  of  Irish  wit  and  humor. 

Our  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Connoly  was  not  extensive,  but 
he  made  an  impression  upon  our  boyish  fancy  which  was  never 
eradicated,  and  when,  a  few  weeks  ago,  the  name  of  Mike  Con- 
noly was  mentioned  in  Memphis,  the  desire  to  meet  him  was 
great. 

It  was  related  that  he  had  been  associated  with  Brann,  in 
the  Iconoclast ;  that  he  had  successfully  conducted  a  number  of 
influential  journals  in  Texas  and  Tennessee ;  that  he  was  best 
known  as  a  paragraf)her,  and  that  he  is  at  present  running  the 
Memphis  Scimeter. 

Unfortunately  we  found  that  Mr.  Connoly  was  out  of  the 
city  and  we  had  to  content  ourselves  with  listening  to  character 
stories  about  him,  the  number  of  which  were  legion. 

"You  know  Mike  Connoly  from  away  back,  do  you?"  asked 
Ralph  Vestal.  "Well,  he  is  a  great  editor  and  very  popular  with 
our  people.  He  is  the  greatest  paragrapher  of  the  age  and  pos- 
sesses a  great  fondness  for  the  telegraph  and  the  telegraph  peo- 
ple. His  sayings  are  quoted  and  requoted,  but  I'll  tell  you  a 
little  story  on  him. 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH 


63 


TOIEDO,  OH[0 

ANDK-VlCINITffe.  • 


z 


ei  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

One  evening  there  was  a  great  crowd  gathered  at  the  Pea- 
body  Hotel,  Mike  Connoly  being  among  the  number  present. 

A  young  fellow,  a  graduate  of  the  University  of  Virginia, 
was  among  those  gathered  in  the  cafe. 

The  young  Virginian  observed  Mr.  Connoly  present  and  ex- 
pressed a  desire  to  meet  the  gentleman,  and  a  mutual  friend  soon 
introduced  the  twain. 

Genuine  pleasure  and  delight  beamed  from  the  Southerner's 
face,  as  he  greeted  the  doughty  Connoly. 

"It  is  most  assuredly  a  great  honor,  Mr.  Connoly,  to  meet 
you,"  began  the  Virginian ;  "I  have  read  your  articles  for  several 
years  and  have  admired  your  many  witty  sayings  and  your  cut- 
ting sarcasm.  I  have  very  many  of  your  paragraphs  among  my 
cHppings  in  my  scrap  book,  and  I  often  pass  a  pleasant  hour  in 
going  over  them. 

"Mr.  Connoly,  you  will  please  excuse  my  temerity,  but  I 
would  consider  it  a  great  honor  if  you  would  join  me  in  a  drink ; 
indeed  I  would,  Mr.  Connoly,"  and  the  young  man  paused. 

Connoly  knitted  his  shaggy  eye-brows,  looked  the  young  fel- 
low all  over,  to  assure  himself  of  his  sincerity,  and  then  ex- 
claimed, "Boy,  you've  bate  me  talking.     Lead  me  to  it." 


MORE  LOST  OPPORTUNITIES 

FRANK  TREMBLE,  who  is  superintendent  of  telegraph  of 
the  Texas  Pacific,  was  swinging  around  the  circle  some 
25  years  ago.  In  the  course  of  his  peregrinations  he 
landed  in  the  thriving  city  of  Albina,  a  suburb  of  Portland,  Ore- 
gon, where  he  accepted  a  position  with  the  O.  R.  &  N.  Co.  as 
operator. 

A  few  months  after  his  arrival  he  purchased  an  acre  of 
ground  in  the  city  of  Albina  for  $275,  on  which  he  paid  $175, 
owing  $100  of  the  purchase  price. 

After  enjoying  the  balmy  climate  of  Oregon  for  a  year  or 
so,  Mr.  Tremble  betook  himself  to  Pasco,  Washington.  He 
had  read  the  legend,  "Keep  your  eye  on  Pasco,"  and  was  bound 
to  investigate  for  himself  the  alleged  wonders  of  that  coming 
metropolis. 

Like  many  another  ephemeral,  mushroom  city,  Pasco  did 
not  pan  out,  and  young  Tremble  hypothecated  his  Albina    hold- 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  $5 

ings  for  a  mess  of  pottage,  just  about  enough  to  keep  him  for 
a  month,  and  then  forgot  all  about  the  transaction. 

A  year  or  so  ago  a  gentleman  visiting  Dallas  became  ac- 
quainted with  Mr.  Tremble  and  incidentally  mentioned  the 
name  of  Albina,  Oregon. 

"Yes,"  remarked  Mr.  Tremble,  "I  used  to  own  an  acre  in 
Albina  some  twenty-five  years  ago." 

"Where  was  it  located?"  queried  the  stranger. 

Tremble  had  the  location  down  pat,  which  he  gave  to  the 
northern  man,  who  quietly  informed  him  that  he,  the  stranger, 
was  now  the  owner  of  the  property,  having  acquired  it  a  year 
previous. 

"What  is  the  value  of  this  property  today?"  inquired  Trem- 
ble. 

"Well,  I  paid  $250,000  for  it,  but  I  would  not  sell  it  for  less 
$275,000,"  responded  the  other. 

"W-h-e-w !"  significantly  whistled  Frank  Tremble,  as  he 
mentally  calculated  how  many  times  $275,  the  purchase  price, 
went  into  $275,000,  wishing  that  he  had  never  listened  to  the 
charming  stories  about  Pasco. 


A  HUMAN  DUPLEX 

SOME  years  ago  W.  A.  Logan,  now  night  chief  operator  for 
the  W.  U.  at  Dallas,  Texas,  was  visiting  his  friend,  John  G. 

Dickerson,  the  station  agent  at  Pacific,  Mo. 

By  way  of  entertainment  one  Sunday  evening  Mr.  Dick- 
erson invited  his  guest  to  attend  Sabbath  evening  services  at 
his  church,  which  was  of  the  Methodist  persuasion. 

The  evening  was  very  warm,  and  the  congregation,  partly 
mesmerized  by  the  exhorting  address  of  the  minister  and  partly 
by  the  excessive  heat,  became  drowsy,  and  many  went  sound 
asleep. 

The  two  telegraph  men  were  the  only  persons  who  were 
alert  to  the  preacher's  words,  excepting  Mrs.  Dickerson,  who 
sat  between  the  two  friends. 

The  exhorter  had  worked  himself  up  to  his  highest  pitch 


66  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

and  was  pleading  to  the  dulled  ears  of  his  congregation  to  come 
forward  and  be  saved,  when  Dickerson  reached  behind  his 
wife's  back  and  seizing  the  lobe  of  Logan's  ear  and  using  his 
ear  socket  as  a  fulcrum,  telegraphed,  "I  say,  Bill,  how  soon  do 
you  think  we  will  have  "30"  on  this?" 

Logan's  arm  crept  behind  Mrs.  Dickerson's  back  and 
catching  hold  of  the  agent's  ear  was  about  to  reply,  but  the 
preacher  observed  him. 

Pointing  a  long,  bony  finger  at  the  twain,  he  proceeded  to 
bawlthem  out  in  orthodox  style. 

"You  fellows  over  there  cannot  possess  a  morsel  of  rever- 
ence for  this  house  of  worship.  There  you  are,  clawing  each 
other's  ears  like  cats  and  dogs.  Why  don't  you  do  your  fight- 
ing on  the  outside  and  keep  from  disturbing  our  good  people?" 

This  was  a  hard  shot,  but  our  heroes  thought  that  in  this 
case  retreat  was  not  the  better  part  of  valor  and  both  manfully 
stood  their  ground,  but  neither  has  invoked  the  aid  of  a  human 
duplex  to  convey  intelligence  in  church  since  that  occurrence. 


"TEXAS  SAMMY' 

IN  a  southern  Texas  town  a  little  boy  named  Sammy  is  em- 
ployed as  messenger. 

The  boy  is  bright,  but  unfortunately  stutters  very  pain- 
fully, and  under  excitement  can  hardly  make  himself  intelli- 
gible. 

He  was  recently  sent  to  deliver  a  message  to  a  lady,  who 
asked  him  to  read  it.  Sammy  started  to  obey  her,  when  the 
lady  grew  very  excited,  imparting  some  of  the  same  feeling  to 
the  messenger.  Sammy  asked  her  to  sign  for  the  message, 
but  she  declared  she  could  not  write.  The  boy  essayed  to  read 
the  telegram,  but  stuttered  so  badly  and  was  interrupted  so 
often  that  he  threw  the  message  down  and  ran  back  to  the 
office,  where  he  reporfed  that  the  lady  could  not  read,  write 
or  listen. 

A  few  days  later  Sammy  was  sent  out  to  deliver  a  tele- 
gram and  was  told  to  collect  a  quarter  for  the  telegraph  tolls. 

Upon  his  return  he  turned  in  fifteen  cents  and  was  asked 
by  the  manager  where  the  balance  of  the  money  was.  The 
boy  stuttered  and  stammered  very  much,  and  replied: 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH 


67 


^^^^ 


h. 


^^r^^^ifMf^ 


\^^i^%^9y.. 


'^^^   O.  /^  <£iu.^^ 


^'^'^'-t^^^  >^.  ^>€;io. 


^^^S^iJLw,^ 


No.  2 


68  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

"Ah  couldn't  say  'quarter,'  boss,  so  I  made  it  fifteen  cents. 

Upon  another  occasion  Sammy  was  sent  out  to  collect  a 
bill  from  a  lady  customer.  Returning  to  the  office,  he  indig- 
nantly exclaimed: 

"Dat  fool  woman  didn't  want  me,  said  she  wanter  'nother 
feller  named  'Itemized  Bill,'  or  sumfin  like  dat." 


OBEYING  ORDERS 

THE  late  Col.  J.  J.  Dickey  was  a  great  joker,  but  a  stickler 
at    technicalities.     He   believed    in    obeying   all    rules    set 
down,  obnoxious  though  they  might  be. 
Mr.   Frank  Tremble,   superintendent   of  the  Texas   PaciHc 
telegraph,  invited  the  colonel  to  go  over  his  line  to  New  Or- 
leans. 

The  journey  was  made  on  the  top  of  a  box  car. 
Just  before  arriving  at  the  first  station  out   from  Dallas, 
Colonel  Dickey  interrupted  his  companion  and  began  to  whistle, 
loud,  long  and  vociferously. 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter?"  asked  Mr.  Tremble. 
"I  always  obey  the  rules  of  the    company,    and    we    just 
passed  a  post  telling  us  to  'whistle,'  and  as     you     did     not     I 
thought  I  must,"  replied  the  happy  colonel. 


A  PRESIDENT'S  JUNKETING  TRIP 

EVERY  patriotic  citizen,  regardless  of  poHtics  Hkes  to  meet 
the  President  of  his  country,  and,  perchance,  to  shake  him 

by  the  hand,  and  the  visit  of  that  dignitary,  under  what- 
soever pretext  it  might  be  taken,  is  hailed  with  delight  by  all 
true  Americans. 

In  191 1,  President  Taft  decided  to  make  a  tour  of  the 
United  States,  his  itinerary  embracing  the  whole  country. 

Enterprising  newspapers  sent  their  representatives  with 
the  party,  and  the  telegraph  companies  were  equally  assiduous 
in  their  attentions  to  the  Executive,  and  Mr.  H.  F.  TafT,  man- 
ager of  the  W.  U.  oflFice  at  Washington,  was  selected  to  repre- 
sent that  company  and  take  care  of  the  commercial  end  of  the 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH  69 

trip.  The  selection  of  Mr.  Taff  was  not  made  on  account  of  the 
great  similarity  of  his  name  with  that  of  the  President ;  no,  that 
was  not  the  reason,  but  let  us  say  it  softly,  it  was  due  to  the 
fact  that  a  more  capable  man  was  not  available. 

It  was  part  of  Mr.  Tail's  duties  to  see  that  the  miUions  of 
readers  of  the  American  newspapers,  had  a  column  or  so,  of 
presidential  gossip  for  dessert,  so  to  speak,  at  their  morning 
meal. 

Willing  hands  and  intelHgent  minds  co-operated  with  the 
party  and  not  a  hitch  or  miss  was  experienced  during  the  entire 
long  trip. 

Mr.  Lewis  McKissick  took  up  the  party  when  it  reached 
the  Central  Division,  accompanying  it  as  far  west  as  Billings 
where  they  were  turned  over  to  George  Hood,  district  traffic 
superintendent  of  the  Pacific  coast  division. 

"Mr.  McKissick  is  a  'fan'  when  it  comes  to  railroading," 
said  Mr.  Taff,  "and  it  would  seem  as  if  he  were  acquainted  with 
the  officials  and  rank  and  file  of  every  railroad  west  of  Chicago. 
He  also  could  tell  without  reference  to  a  time  card,  the  hour  of 
the  arrival  and  departure  of  all  trains,  the  distance  between 
cities,  and,  in  truth,  all  matters  necessary  to  know  in  conducting 
the  party  through  the  labyrinth  of  railroads. 

When  we  arrived  at  Seattle,,  that  progressive  city  jobbed 
pokey  Tacoma  by  stealing  the  President  from  them  for  a  day. 

It  was  in  the  month  of  October  and  rather  late  in  the  sea- 
son for  a  visit  to  Mount  Rainier,  but  President  Taft  was  will- 
ing, and  an  expedition  was  planned  and  carried  out. 

It  was  late  when  they  reached  the  snow  line  of  Mt.  Rainier 
where  they  expected  to  find  telephone  connection,  but  the  office 
was  discovered  to  be  closed  for  the  season  and  the  next  nearest 
office  was  several  miles  further  down  the  mountain. 

There  were  no  conveyances  going  back  for  several  hours ; 
it  was  too  far  to  walk,  and  it  looked  as  if  the  country  were  to 
be  deprived  the  following  morning  of  their  usual  news  concern- 
ing the  President. 

"Let's  get  a  move  on,"  remarked  Mr.  Hood,  "I  think  that 
I  can  see  an  object  coming  down  the  trail  on  the  mountain." 

He  was  right  and  the  object  proved  to  be  an  automobile, 
loaded  down  to  its  full  capacity. 

A  few  words  with  the  driver  and  he  was  willing  to  take 
Mr.  Hood  to  the  next  station  provided  he  agreed  to  sit  down 


70  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

on  the  floor  of  the  vehicle  to  balance  it  and  keep  it  from  getting 
top  heavy. 

The  station  v^as  reached,  Seattle  called  up,  who  switched 
New  York  on  and  Mr.  Hood  started  sending  his  "dope"  for  the 
eastern  journals.  Mr.  Hood  is  conversant  with  the  Phillips 
code,  the  common  code,  the  darkey's  code,  in  fact,  knows  them 
all  by  heart,  and  by  the  time  the  party  had  reached  the  isolated 
station  on  their  return,  everything  had  been  sent  to  New  York, 
thus  making  quite  an  achievement  for  the  Seattle  traffic  super- 
intendent. 


UNBROKEN  RULES 

EVERYBODY,  like  W.  W.  Umsted  and  Harvey  D.  Reynolds, 
for  instance,  who  worked  in  Buffalo  and  Cleveland  in  the 
'70s,  will  remember  a  tall,  slender,  handsome  young  oper- 
ator working  there  at  that  time,  named  Nelson  C.  Griswold. 

"Gris,"  as  he  was  famiHarly  called  by  his  colleagues,  was 
the  star  operator  of  those  offices  of  many  stars,  and  he  was 
held  in  much  esteem  by  all  of  his  associates. 

The  saying  is,  "Whiskey,  ye  are  the  divil,  drunk,  or  sober," 
and  at  this  time  young  Griswold  loved  the  taste  of  red  Hquor. 

A  German,  named  Schmidt,  kept  a  saloon  adjacent  to  the 
telegraph  office,  at  Buffalo,  which  was  much  patronized  by  the 
boys. 

Schmidt  kept  a  slate  and  the  operators  would  run  a  monthly 
account,  Griswold  among  the  rest. 

Payday  had  arrived  and  departed  and  Griswold  had  not 
shown  up  to  pay  his  score  at  the  Schmidt  business  house,  but 
later  in  the  month,  he  sauntered  in  to  get  a  nip. 

The  German  upbraided  "Gris"  for  his  neglect  to  come 
around  and  liquidate,  and  the  imperturbable  operator  took  it 
all  in. 

Reaching  down  into  the  fastnesses  of  his  pocket,  Griswold 
pulled  up  a  long  paper  looking  like  a  legal  document,  and 
said: 

"Look  here,  Schmidt,  I  want  to  show  you  something.  Here 
is  a  list  of  the  money  that  I  owe  and  this  is  the  order  in  which 
I  propose  paying  them." 

The  paper  contained  about  50  names,  including  the  tailor, 
boarding  house,  etc. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


71 


Columbus 

OHIO. 


^.■M.  o^w  "my 


ii^si^  ^-"^^^f^^^ 


n  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

"You  will  note  that  you  are  fourth  on  my  Hst,  and  in  the 
natural  course  of  events,  you  would  get  your  money  in  about 
ten  days,  but,  I  make  it  a  rule  if  anyone  duns  me,  I  will  erase 
their  name  and  put  them  down  at  the  bottom,  and  there  they 
will  have  to  await  their  turn,  and  now  I  will  proceed  to  do  this, 
and  you  will  probably  get  your  money  in  three  months." 

Pleadings  and  protestations  by  the  Teuton  did  not  shake 
Griswold,  who  assured  the  saloon  man  that  his  rules  were  not 
elastic  and  they  must  be  lived  up  to. 

This  episode  occurred  a  great  many  years  ago,  but  it  is 
told  and  retold  by  the  old-timers  whenever  Griswold's  name  is 
mentioned. 

Mr.  Griswold  is  now  a  bright  and  shining  light  in  a  large 
western  city,  and  it  is  probable  that  he  will  crack  a  smile  when 
he  reads  of  the  foibles  of  his  youth. 


INADEQUATE  CUSPIDORS 

THE  Chicago  office  of  the  Western  Union  Telegraph  Com- 
pany (in  1877)  had  been  noted  for  the  manliness  of  its  em- 
ployes, who  realized  that  they  were  men  and  women,  and 
for  this  reason  entitled  to  the  consideration  of  the  local,  as  well 
as  the  general  officials. 

It  became  necessary,  some  times,  to  have  this  fact  impressed 
on  the  minds  of  those  immediately  in  charge,  who  relegated  to 
themselves  authority  not  vested  in  them. 

It  was  considered  the  wise  thing  to  hire  a  hall,  and  there  to 
meet  once  a  week  to  discuss  the  situation,  and  to  determine  upon 
the  most  business-like  manner  of  procedure  to  meet  the  exi- 
gencies of  any  case  in  hand. 

Piatt's  hall,  on  the  South  Side,  was  selected  for  this  pur- 
pose, and  every  Sunday  a  meeting  was  held  to  discuss  the  com- 
plaints and  grievances  of  the  employes  assembled. 

Wm.  J.  Lloyd  was  the  presiding  officer  on  tliese  occasions, 
and  he  was  a  glorious  worker  in  the  cause. 

Much  good  resulted  from  this  "getting  together"  and  it  was 
found  to  be  a  simple  matter  to  adjust  the  grievances,  once  they 
were  uncovered  and  aired. 

There  was  present  at  one  of  these  meetings  B.  E.  Sunny, 
who  was  night  manager  for  the  Atlantic  &  Pacific  Telegraph 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  73 

Company.  This  company  never  had  any  trouble  with  its  em- 
ployes, and  if  one  were  disposed  to  do  half-way  right,  he  would 
not  be  censured  or  reprimanded  by  his  superiors,  and  the  office 
was  very  pleasant  to  work  in. 

"I  notice  we  have  Mr.  Sunny,  of  the  A.  &  P.,  with  us  today," 
remarked  President  Lloyd.  "We  would  like  to  hear  from  him 
and  if  he  has  any  grievance  against  his  company,  would  like  to 
have  him  state  the  nature  of  it,  and  we  promise  to  try  and  adjust 
the  difficulty." 

Mr.  Sunny  protested  that  he  came  to  attend  the  meeting 
merely  as*  an  on-looker,  and  knew  of  nothing  that  he  could  enter 
a  complaint  against. 

The  president  demurred  at  this  statement,  saying  he  could 
not  conceive  of  such  an  earthly  paradise  as  a  telegraph  office 
where  all  were  satisfied  and  where  there  were  no  grievances. 

"Well,  come  to  think  of  it,  there  is  a  grievance  we  have  that 
should  be  remedied,"  said  Sunny.  *T  have  spoken  to  the  man- 
ager and  superintendent,  but  with  no  avail;  and  the  evil  still 
continues.  The  cuspidors  in  use  at  our  office  are  not  much 
larger  than  a,  tea  cup  and  wholly  inadequate  to  take  care  of  the 
expectorations  of  our  Hberal  users  of  the  weed,  and  I  have  asked 
for  larger  utensils  to  accommodate  these  copious  expectorations, 
but  no  relief  has  yet  come^  and  I  think  it  will  require  executive 
action  to  force  the  issue." 

"The  matter  is  referred  to  the  Grievance  Committee  with 
the  request  that  it  be  adjusted  at  once,"  said  President  Lloyd, 
and  the  meeting  was  adjourned. 

It  is  related  that  more  adequate  cuspidors  graced  the  At- 
lantic &  Pacific  operating  room  a  few  days  later,  indicating  the 
efficiency  of  determined  organization. 


BUNKER  HILL 

YOUNG  SAM  is  the  lively  and  efficient  receiving  clerk  at 
the  Postal  office  in  Oakland,  and  he  never  lets  anything 
get  away. 
The  Postal  has  a  customer  in  Oakland  who  is  a  Britisher, 
born  within  sound  of  the  Bow  bells. 

This  Englishman  does  much  cabling  between  Oakland  and 
London,   everything  being  transmitted   and   received   in   code, 


Y4  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

and  as  his  residence  is  some  distance  from  the  telegraph  office 
the  cable  messages  are  telephoned. 

"It  was  a  hard  task  to  teach  the  English  customer  how  to 
take  these  cipher  messages  over  the  phone,"  said  Sam.  "I 
could  not  get  him  to  understand  when  I  got  a  very  difficult 
word  and  wanted  to  emphasize  each  letter,  such  as  'e'  for  Qgg, 
and  'c'  for  California,  etc.  But  finally  he  seemed  to  catch  on, 
and  really  enjoyed  it.  However,  he  had  not  much  of  an  idea 
how  to  use  the  same  process  himself.  For  instance,  he  would 
say,  *d,'  what  does  *d'  stand  for?     Oh,  yes,  'd'  for  Devonshire. 

**One  day  the  Britisher  called  up  to  send  a  cipher  cable 
message,  and  striking  some  hard  words  proceeded  to  illustrate 
them.  He  said,  *f,'  let's  see,  what  stands  for  *f?'  Yes,  Fran- 
cis; 'b,'  what  is  *b?'  Aw,  yes,  *b'  for  bloody  Bunker  Hill.  Is 
that  how  you  pronounce  the  blooming  old  hill?" 

Evidently  the  name  brought  harrowing  memories  to  the 
mind  of  our  English  cousin. 


HIS  PRAYER 

An  old  railroad  man  was  converted,  as  the  story  goes,  and 
was  asked  to  lead  in  prayer.     Here  is  the  way  he  worked  it : 

"Oh,  Lord,  now  that  I  have  flagged  Thee,  lift  my  feet  off 
the  rough  road  of  life  and  plant  them  safely  on  the  deck  of  the 
train  of  salvation.  Let  me  use  the  safety  lamp  known  as  pru- 
dence, make  all  couplings  in  the  train  with  the  strong  link  of 
Thy  love.  And,  Heavenly  Father,  keep  all  switches  closed  that 
lead  off  to  sidings,  especially  those  with  a  blind  end.  Oh,  Lord, 
if  it  be  Thy  pleasure,  have  every  semaphore  blocked  along  the 
line ;  show  the  white  line  of  hope  that  I  may  make  the  run  of 
life  without  stopping. 

"And  Lord,  give  us  the  ten  commandments  as  a  schedule 
time,  and  when  my  train  shall  have  pulled  into  the  great  dark 
station  of  Death,  may  Thou,  the  Superintendent  of  the  Universe, 
say  with  a  smile :  'Well  done,  thou  good  and  faithful  servant ; 
come  up  and  sign  the  pay-roll  and  receive  your  check  for  eter- 
nal happiness'." 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


75 


ETHELINDA 

By  Walter  P.  Phillips 

ETHELINDA'S  mother  called  on  our  manager  one  day  to 
apply  for  a  situation  for  her  daughter.     She  explained  that 
she  came  from  Foxboro,  was  a  widow,    and    had    visited 
Providence  to   dispose   of  some   butter  and  cheese.     She   said 
"Lihdy"had  been  practicing  in  the  Insulated  Company's  office,  and 


*^For  She  Was  a  Baging  Beauty' 


added  that  "Mr.  Van  Shoot  says  she  doose  furst  rate."  Some- 
thing in  the  old  lady's  homely,  though  sincere,  manner  enlisted 
our  manager's  interest,  and  knowing  that  vacancies  on  the  Insu- 
lated Line,  recently  established  by  Mr.  Van  Shoot,  were  few, 
owing  to  the  limited  number  of  offices,  he  told  her  mother  that 
he  thought  perhaps  Ethelinda  would  do  to  succeed  the  retiring 
operator  at  Howgate. 

"That  will  be  clever,"  returned  her  mother.  "I  ain't  never 
had  no  chance  to  go  nowhere  myself,  and  I  want  'Lindy'  for  to 
git  some  polish  onto  her  by  going  away  from  hum  a  spell."  So 
it  was  decided  that  Ethelinda  should  come  down  next  day,  and 
if  she  passed  a  satisfactory  examination,  go  up  to  Howgate  at 


76  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

once.  She  dawned  on  us  bright  and  early.  I  say  dawned  on  us 
advisedly,  for  she  was  a  raging  beauty.  There  were  five  of  us 
in  the  telegraph  office,  all  young  and  single,  and  we  were  madly 
in  love  with  her  on  sight.  While  her  speech  ran  less  luxuriantly 
to  negatives  than  her  mother's,  it  was  faulty,  and  it  was  dis- 
turbing, to  say  the  least,  to  hear  her  ejaculate:  "You  don't  say 
so,"  or  "Dew  tell,"  when  we  explained  the  modus  operandi  of 
transacting  business  in  a  large  office. 

I  am  afraid  as  I  grow  older  and  more  conscientious,  that 
Ethelinda  was  not  an  expert  operator;  but  we  made  a  report  to 
the  manager  which  secured  her  the  Howgate  office.  He  was  not 
a  Morse  operator  himself,  and  trusted  us  implicitly.  I  suppose 
that  if  by  any  chance  she  could  have  been  retained  at  Providence, 
we  should  have  agreed  on  a  favorable  verdict,  whatever  qualifi- 
cations might  have  been  requisite.  To  be  sure,  she  made  an  "f" 
for  a  "w"  and  she  was  so  prodigal  with  her  dots  that  if  the  sur- 
plus ones  had  been  counted  and  checked  against  her — as  I  am 
told  is  now  the  practice  on  certain  nameless  lines — her  salary 
would  not  have  paid  the  tolls.  But  in  our  eyes  those  were  but 
trifles  in  those  glad  years,  and  looking  down  into  the  pure  depths 
of  her  violet  eyes,  I  thought  she  was  an  angel,  and  I  almost  came 
to  think  that  "gku"  was  an  improvement  on  "tnku,"  as  she  said 
it  to  Fred  Ford,  who  had  just  told  her  from  the  switch  that  she 
sent  like  a  man.  He  blushed  a  little  as  she  naively  inquired 
how  long  he  had  read  by  hound.  I  am  not  sure  but  she  said  by 
pound ;  but  I  abated  my  admiration  not  one  iota. 

EtheHnda's  debut  at  Howgate  was  not  marked  by  unusual 
brilliancy ;  but  the  distance  from  our  city  was  short,  and  one  of 
us  was  pretty  sure  to  be  with  her  during  the  better  part  of  the 
day.  Occasionally,  to  my  regret,  two  of  us  were  in  attendance 
to  do  her  work,  and  that  was  a  state  of  things  much  to  be 
deplored.  Mornings  and  evenings,  however,  owing  to  the  pecu- 
Harities  of  the  railroad  time  table,  she  was  alone,  and  as  she 
tumbled  out  our  call  and  signed,  the  effect  was  demoraHzing. 
The  signal  for  Howgate  was  "Hw,"  and  Ethelinda  favored  ex- 
tremely long  dashes.  The  "H"  generally  came  staggering  in 
with  moderate  safety,  but  her  manner  of  adding  the  "w"  gave 
her  call  a  weird,  sad  sound,  suggestive  of  a  clime  where  the 
thermometer  would  be  inadequate.  Sometimes,  in  a  fit  of  gen- 
erosity with  her  dots,  she  rendered  it  "pell."  But  our  periods 
of  depression  were  only  transient ;  for  on  seeing  her  we  straight- 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  77 

way  forgot  her  infirmities  of  skill,  and  sat  and  feasted  our  eyes 
on  her  surpassing  beauty.  Through  one  entire  summer  we  vi- 
brated between  adoration  of  Ethelinda  and  disenchantment,  be- 
cause of  her  peculiarities,  telegraphic  and  otherwise. 

Fred  Ford,  who  was  the  oldest  of  us  all,  ceased  his  atten- 
tions one  September  day  for  personal  reasons.  He  plumed  him- 
self on  his  accurate  and  finished  sending.  Visiting  Ethelinda  in 
the  afternoon,  he  found  a  message  undelivered  which  he  had 
sent  in  the  morning.  "This  message  was  addressed  to  Miss  H. 
A.  Sherman,  not  as  you  have  it — to  Miss  Hasherman,"  said  Fred. 

"That  was  the  way  you  sent  it,"  said  Ethelinda,  demurely. 

"Oh !  I  dare  say,"  returned  Fred,  sarcastically.  "Have  you 
notified  New  York  yet  that  you  failed  to  find  Miss  Hasherman?" 
he  inquired.     "That  would  have  disclosed  the  error." 

"No,  indeed,"  she  replied  carelessly ;  "the  message  is  paid ;  ] 
didn't  fret  myself  about  it." 

Fred  was  not  entertaining  in  the  interval  to  train  time  and 
Ethelinda,  I  fear,  pouted  a  little.  Fred  regretted  his  quick  tem- 
per afterward,  I  think.  Ethelinda  had  probably  been  told  on 
good  authority  that  money  was  the  objective  point  in  the  tele- 
graph business,  and  the  message  being  prepaid,  she  regarded  it  a 
small  matter  whether  or  not  it  was  delivered.  Fred  used  to  say, 
sometimes,  that  he  was  going  to  make  it  up  with  her,  but  when 
the  war  broke  out  he  went  away  suddenly,  requesting  me  to  tell 
Ethelinda  he  sent  her  his  love. 

Ned  Jones  retired  as  an  admirer  along  in  October,  after 
attempting  thirty-seven  times,  one  day,  to  get  the  signature 
"A.  H.  Okie"  to  a  station  on  Ethelinda's  wire.  She  was  anxious 
to  obtain  circuit,  and  to  her,  in  common  with  a  great  many  of 
her  sex,  "O.  K."  was  the  signal  to  claim  it. 

Poor  Neddy !  I  think  he  loved  Ethelinda ;  but  he  was  more 
fastidious  than  the  rest  of  us,  and  he  "died  of  a  color  in  aesthetic 
pain,"  figuratively  speaking,  and  reHnquished  her.  Ethelinda's 
orthography  was  defective,  a  point  on  which  Billy  Jackson  was 
"more  nice  than  wise,"  as  she  afterward  expressed  it.  In  a  note 
to  him  she  spoke  of  "fenses,"  the  "new-mown  gras,"  and  invited 
him  to  "com  down  on  Sundy  and  go  gathering  furns."  Dear 
particular  Jack !  He  couldn't  stand  it ;  and  that  Sabbath  and 
many  others  have  glided. by  without  his  giving  his  attention  to 
the  ferns  at  Howgate. 

"It  is  no  use,  my  boys,"  he  said,  gloomily;  "she  is  a  beauty 


78 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


and  a  darling,  and  I  can  endure  her  telegraphing  and  all  that,  but 
when  she  attempts  to  foist  her  phonetic  system  of  spelling  on 
me,  I  won't  have  it.  I  am  not  a  believer  in  phonetics,  and  Ethe- 
linda  is  not  for  me.     Woo  her  yourself  and  win  her.     She  may 


WALTER  p.  PHILLIPS 


call  you  her  'dier* ;  but  you  are  a  philosopher,  and  don't  strain  at 
gnats,  as  you  are  fond  of  telling  us." 

Jack  was  a  sad  dog,  and  he  went  off  laughing  at  me. 

Thus  out  of  the  five  only  George  Hunter  and  I  remained 
staunch  to  the  divinity  at  Howgate.  We  were  sworn  friends, 
and  had  been  for  years,  but  we  quarreled  about  Ethelinda  at  last. 
It  was  on  a  dull  December  day  that  we  proceeded  into  the  sub 
urbs  to  fight  it  out.  We  compromised  on  talking  it  over,  and 
when  we  parted  we  had  promised  not  to  visit  or  write  to 
Ethelinda  for  six  months.     At  the  end  of  that  time  we  were  to 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


79 


compare  notes  and  determine  upon  our  future  action.  Idly  done. 
Befoife  five  months  had  passed  Hunter  had  become  engaged  to 
his  present  wife,  and  I  was  assiduously  besieging  the  heart  of  a 
lady  operator,  and  she  worked  not  at  Howgate. 

All  of  the  old  force  deserted  Providence  within  a  year  or 
two,  and  Ethelinda  was  left  behind  us.     But  she  long  since  left 


M.  M.  DAVIS 


Howgate,  and  her  successor  was  unable  to  tell  me,  as  were  also 
her  old  neighbors  at  Foxboro,  when  I  inquired  whither  she  had 
gone.  There  are  four  sober-going  married  men,  however,  who 
must  remember  Ethelinda  as  a  vision  of  loveliness,  and  in  whose 
foolish  old  hearts  there  are  sometimes  longings  to  view  once 
more  her  lovely  girlish  face.  Fred  Ford  is  one  of  those  of  whom 
Mr.  Aldrich  says : 

"The  long  years  come,  but  they 
Come  not  again." 

He  was  killed  at  Antietam,  and  sleeps  beneath  the  unremem- 
bering  grass  now  waving  where  erstwhile  the  battle  roared.  We 
hoped  once  that  he  would  return  and  marry  Ethelinda ;  but  that 
is  past,  and  we  can  only  invoke  her  image.  We  do  that  often, 
and  her  bright,  piquant  face  illuminates  and  makes  beautiful  the 
rich  and  splendid  past,  until  we  become  four  very  proud  partners 
in  a  memory  as  sweet  and  witching  as  an  evening  breeze  on 
which  comes  wafted  the  odor  of  mignonette. 


80      .  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  M:EM0IRS 


^  w.* .*. 


"l?<^l  ^!;i^  ^^^fc^ 


_^  V    ^'^^Z^-^^-^^^^.^^^^^'- 


No.  3 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  81 


SECTION  III 


STORIES  OF  THE  MIDDLE  WEST 

By  Jeff  W.  Hayes 

A  NIGHT  OF  TERROR 

4  4  JAMESTOWN,  DAKOTA,"  said  Mr.  Hugh  McPhee,  rem- 

I  iniscently,  "was  a  genuine  frontier  town  back  there  in  the 
8o's,  and  it  was  full  of  all  that  kind  of  snap  and  ginger, 
not  to  say  deviltry,  which  usually  beset  a  place  where  law  and 
order  is  of  secondary  consideration. 

Times  had  been  hard  in  the  Dakotas,  the  railroad  had  fallen 
into  the  hands  of  the  receiver,  crops  had  failed  and  money  there 
was  none. 

An  insane  asylum  at  "Jimtown"  was  filled  to  overflowing 
by  several  hundred  Scandinavians,  driven  "bug  house"  by  the  loss 
of  their  money  and  no  bright  prospects  to  reassure  them  of 
future  improvement. 

Many  escapes  were  made  from  the  asylum  and  encounters 
with  a  crazy  man  were  not  uncommon. 

"Jimtown"  was  a  Mecca  for  the  gamblers,  and  it  was  known 
for  a  thousand  miles  around  as  "Craptown,"  a  name  given  it  by 
the  actors  on  the  serio-comic  stage,  who  evidently  had  their  own 
experiences. 

One  night  a  burly  Swede,  easily  six  feet  four  inches,  entered 
a  down  town  saloon  and  immediately  began  to  interest  himself  in 
a  game  of  craps  then  going  on. 

The  big  Swede  was  unlucky,  and  when  it  came  his  time  to 
pay  up  he  said  he  had  no  money. 

This  was  too  much  for  the  dealer  of  the  game,  who,  with 
the  assistance  of  his  bouncers,  jumped  on  the  deHnquent,  who 
showed  fight. 

A  half  hour  later  the  Swede,  all  covered  with  blood,  with  his 
clothes  torn  from  his  back,  boarded  the  Eastbound  train. 

Not  having  any  money  to  pay  his  fare  he  was  carried  to 
Sanborn,  the  next  station,  as  it  was  deemed  a  pity  to  turn  him 
loose  in  the  desert  between  stations. 


82  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

The  night  operator  was  keeping  his  lonely  vigil  at  San- 
born, when  in  rushed  a  man  of  gigantic  proportions,  bloody  and 
bruised  and  half  naked. 

Quickly  and  peremptorily  he  addressed  the  operator : 

"I  am  the  president  of  this  road  and  I  want  you  to  order  out 
my  private  car  and  a  special  train  quick ;  be  lively  now  or  I'll 
jump  out  of  the  window  with  you." 

One  frightened  glance  at  the  imaginary  president  and  the 
startled  operator  jumped  out  of  the  window,  carrying  sash  and 
glass  with  him  and  leaving  the  office  in  the  possession  of  the 
terrible  Swede. 

The  unwelcome  visitor  was  soon  after  overpowered  and 
returned  to  the  insane  asylum. 


THE  OLD  OGDEN  OFFICE 

IN  1879  the  repeaters  were  moved  from  Salt  Lake  City  to  Ogden 
and  A.  J.  Pattison  was  sent  out  from  New  York  to  manage 
the  office. 

The  change  was  made  one  Sunday  morning  and  it  was  with 
some  misgivings  that  the  hegira  to  Ogden  began. 

The  boys  who  boarded  the  train  from  Salt  Lake  that  frosty 
morning  were  Aleck  Morison,  E.  J.  FuUum,  Cass  H.  White,  M.  J. 
Burke,  E.  Burke  Spencer,  Walter  E.  Huey,  Willis  ].  Cook,  Jeft 
W.  Hayes,  O.  H.  Grey,  Geo.  MacMahon,  Samuel  J.  Kelley,  Mi- 
chael Conway,  Thos.  F.  Kehoe,  Charlie  Moore,  while  Jack  Mori 
son  and  Courcey  Burke  were  left  to  run  the  Salt  Lake  office,  then 
managed  by  John  Henderson. 

The  influx  of  operators  into  the  little  city  of  Ogden  was 
hailed  with  much  delight  by  the  townspeople ;  hotels,  boarding 
house  keepers  and  cafes  keeping  open  house  on  the  occasion.  A 
lengthy  editorial  in  the  Gentile  organ  of  the  day  devoted  an 
entire  column  calling  the  attention  of  the  world  to  the  rapidly  in- 
creasing population  of  Ogden  City,  Utah. 

Mr.  Pattison  was  not  an  agreeable  man  to  work  with  and 
much  disaffection  ensued.  Many  new  faces  came  from  all  parts 
of  the  country  and  Ogden,  as  a  telegraph  center,  was  speedily 
put  on  th'e  map. 

This  oflfice,  in  the  few  succeeding  years,  employed  some  of 
the  best  known  talent  of  the  country.     I  can  name  but  a  few. 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH  83 

Ed  C.  Keeler  put  in  an  appearance  in  1880  and  remained  till 
July,  1883.  O.  D.  Banks,  June  Bright  and  his  brother  Aylmer, 
Frank  Buckley,  "Nip"  Jones,  Thomas  W.  Booth,  A.  Z.  Wash- 
burn, W.  L.  MacLellan,  John  F.  Ledwidge,  Frank  P.  Medina, 
B.  S.  Josselyn,  Cliff  E.  Mayne,  J.  Frank  Howell,  Phil  Kearney, 
J.  W.  Booth,  Abe  J.  Booth,  Mr.  Bates  now  of  New  York  office, 
John  Fletcher,  Levi  S.  Wild,  Alex.  Buckman,  Geo.  W.  Gardanier, 
Billy  Curtis,  Bob  Empey,  W.  R.  Williams,  and  many  others. 

Aaron  B.  Hilliker  was  working  for- the  Central  Pacific  rail 
road  and  was  always  a  welcome  guest  at  the  social  gatherings. 


C.  E.  MAYNE 


V.  D.  GREEN 


Frank  D.  Giles  was  manager  for  the  Union  Pacific  office  at  Og- 
den  about  this  time,  and  he  will  probably  assert  that  the  time 
he  spent  there  was  the  happiest  of  his  Hfe. 

There  was  a  character,  named  Pratt,  a  wonderful  operator 
in  his  day  and  a  most  eccentric  person.  He  will  be  well  remem- 
bered by  all  who  "tarried  but  a  while"  in  Utah's  second  city. 
"Pratty,"  as  we  called  him,  was  a  regular  "Col.  Mulberry  Sellers," 
and  there  are  as  many  stories  related  of  him  as  there  are  told  of 
the  irrepressible  "Bogy." 

There  was  a  young  lady  who  ran  the  postoffice  there,  at 
whose  shrine  all  the  boys  paid  homage,  but  none  captured  the 
prize.  They  will  all  remember  the  pretty  face  and  sweet  voice 
of  Cora  Stephens,  who  later  married  Charlie  Brough,  mayor  of 


S4 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


®^^^^ 


Mi 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


85 


Ogden,  now  deceased.  Mrs.  Brough  is  fair,  stout  and  over  31, 
and  lives  in  Los  Angeles  at  present. 

But  I  started  in  to  relate  an  anecdote  anent  the  Ogden  of- 
fice and  got  sw^itched  off  by  indulging  in  reminiscences. 

All  the  operators  will  remember  the  location  of  the  "SF" 
wire  when  the  office  was  on  the  second  story  of  the  First  Na- 
tional Bank  building. 

Here  is  where  the  heavy  work  was  done  and,  as  if  to  empha- 
size their  labors,  the  chair  on  which  sat  the  sending  operator. 


W.  W.  BLACKMAIL 


was  made  to  wear  a  hole  into  the  soft  pine  flooring.  Once  this 
hole  got  started  it  was  pushed  along,  vigorously,  until  it  had 
worked  its  way  clear  through. 

Everything  around  a  telegraph  office  has  its  usage,  and  this 
little  aperture  was  soon  put  into  business. 

Manager  Pattison  detested  tobacco  and  made  an  unceasing 
crusade  on  that  commodity  and  its  usage  in  the  Ogden  office. 

"No  chewing  tobacco  allowed"  was  posted  conspicuously  on 
the  bulletin  board,  and  the  manager  had  his  eagle  eye  open  for 
breakers  of  this  rule. 

Of  course  there  was  more  or  less  chewing  going  on  just  the 
same,  only  more  care  was  taken  in  providing  a  receptacle  for  the 
tobacco  juice. 


86  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

Consider  then  what  a  God-send  that  hole  in  the  floor  was  to 
the  tobacco  chewer,  and  what  premium  there  appeared  to  be  on 
the  "SF"  wire.     Everybody  wanted  to  work  that  wire. 

Time  went  on,  the  hole  in  the  floor  grew  larger,  but  no  at- 
tention was  paid  to  it  by  Manager  Pattison. 

Some  weeks  had  now  elapsed  and  the  officials  of  the  First 
National  Bank,  who  occupied  the  room  directly  under  the  operat- 
ing room,  noticed  a  strange  discoloration  of  the  beautifully  fres- 
coed ceiling  ornamenting  the  bank.  As  the  days  went  by  this 
mark  became  more  and  more  pronounced,  until  it  assumed  the 
cctlor  of  a  beautifully  shaded  meerschaum  pipe. 

Something  had  to  be  done  and  a  thorough  investigation  en- 
sued which  disclosed  the  hole  near  the  San  Francisco  table,  and 
it  became  immediately  apparent  that  the  innocent  hole  had  been 
long  used  to  accommodate  the  expectorations  of  the  tobacco 
chewers. 

Mr.  Pattison  was  wild  with  chagrin  at  being  outdone  and 
having  his  pet  bulletin  disobeyed. 

All  the  boys  were  brought  on  to  the  carpet,  but  one  and  all 
disclaimed  that  they  chewed,  many  asseverating  that  the  sight 
and  taste  of  the  weed  was  objectionable  to  them;  one  man  pro- 
tested that  the  very  name  of  "tobacco"  made  him  sick. 

The  bank  repaired  their  ceiUng  and  the  hole  was  solidly  cov- 
ered over,  but  it  is  a  question  if  the  tobacco  habit  was  eliminated 
from  the  Ogden  offlce. 

Upon  a  recent  visit  to  that  city  a  new  condition  of  affairs 
was  manifest.  The  old  crowd  has  gone,  every  last  one  of  them, 
and  it  would  be  difflcult  to  follow  them  up  to  their  present  where- 
abouts. Jack  Ledwidge  is  court  stenographer  in  Tacoma ;  Burke 
Spencer  is  with  the  W.  U.  in  San  Francisco  and  as  good  a  fellow 
as  he  ever  was ;  A.  Z.  Washburn  is  with  the  newspapers  in  Seat- 
tle ;  W.  L.  MacLellan  was  a  banker  and  broker  on  Wall  street, 
New  York,  as  well  as  is  J.  Frank  Howell ;  George  McMahon  is 
living  at  Long  Beach,  taking  life  easy ;  Aleck  and  Jack  Morrison 
are  both  in  New  York,  as  is  Abe  Booth ;  Frank  D.  Giles  is  in  the 
executive  office  for  the  W.  U.  in  New  York;  Charlie  Moore  is 
retired  at  Omaha;  O.  H.  Grey  and  E.  J.  Fullum  are  both  in  New 
York ;  June  Bright  is  in  Portland,  Ore. 

Many  of  this  once  happy  throng  have  crossed  the  river  Styx, 
but  their  memories  are  very  dear  to  us. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  87 


SULPHUROUS  TIMES 


THE  broiling  sun  beat  down  on  an  unsheltered  shack,  the 
depot  at  Carter,  Wyoming.  A  strange,  sulphurous  gas 
seemed  to  ooze  up  from  the  ground,  at  times,  unbearable. 

Fourteen  Chinamen,  in  charge  of  a  sturdy  Irishman,  Tom 
Steel  by  name,  were  working  on  the  track  two  miles  up  the  road. 

In  the  dirty  hovel  of  the  depot  sat  a  youth,  still  in  his  teens, 
possessing  a  face  of  extraordinary  intelligence. 

By  the  young  man's  side  stood  an  animal,  a  nondescript ; 
partly  coyote,  partly  Indian  dog. 

The  animal  seemed  very  much  perturbed,  and  would  give 
vent  to  a  mournful  yelp  every  few  minutes. 

He  would  go  out  on  the  track,  sniff  the  phosphorescent  at- 
mosphere for  a  minute,  then  quickly  return,  try  to  hide  his  head 
in  his  master's  coat,  always  giving  forth  quick,  sharp  barks, 
followed  by  the  mournful  cries  so  peculiar  to  the  race  from 
which  he  sprang. 

"This  is  no  place  for  me,"  ejaculated  "Biff"  Cook,  as  he  pat- 
ted his  companion's  head.  "I'm  sorry  I  didn't  stay  in  Julesburg, 
but  that  wouldn't  be  seeing  the  country.  I  wonder  what's  the 
matter  with  'Jim'  and  what  this  smell  of  sulphur  means.  Evi- 
dently 'Jim'  don't  like  it,"  as  the  dog  looked  up  into  his  master's 
face. 

"Biff"  Cook  had  started  out  to  see  the  country  and  had  found 
a  world  of  experience  in  a  few  short  months,  but  he  was  un- 
daunted. He  had  been  appointed  night  operator  at  Carter,  but 
there  was  no  day  operator,  and  Cook  was  the  sole  occupant  of 
the  little  building,  complimentarily  called  the  "depot."  He  had 
bought  the  dog  from  an  Indian  boy  for  lo  cents  and  the  strange 
beast  became  his  inseparable  companion. 

The  lurid  sun  had  sunk  down  the  western  horizon  and  Tom 
Steel  came  down  the  track  on  his  handcar  loaded  down  with 
Chinamen,  all  chattering  like  monkeys. 

"Oi  think  we'll  have  an  earthquake  before  morning,  or  Oi'll 
ate  me  hat,"  said  Steel  as  he  entered  the  door  of  the  depot. 
"Yees  can  always  tell  it ;  even  that  little  baste  there  knows  it," 
pointing  to  the  dog,  who  was  uneasily  patrolling  the  platform. 

The  Chinamen  cooked  their  frugal  supper  of  boiled  rice  and 
tea,  while  Cook  and  Steel  prepared  a  more  sumptuous  meal  of 
bacon  and  eggs.     Pipes  were  produced  after  supper  and  much 


88  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

story  telling  was  indulged  in  by  the  two  white  inhabitants  of  this 
lonely  spot,  the  Orientals  enjoying  the  same  pastime  right  across 
the  track. 

Night  fell,  but  a  strange  phosphorescent  light  was  abroad 
upon  the  land.  The  sulphurous  smell  increased  in  volume  and 
the  yelping  of  the  dog  became  still  more  pitiful. 

"Oi  think  Oi'll  kape  yees  company,"  remarked  Steel  as  he 
stretched  himself  on  a  blanket  on  the  floor,  presently  becoming 
oblivious  to  the  impending  phenomena. 

**Biff"  curled  up  on  the  table,  alongside  his  instruments, 
joining  his  snores  to  those  of  the  more  vigorous  section  boss. 

Presently  everybody  was  asleep  excepting  "Jim"  the  dog, 
who  never  let  up  on  his  cries  for  a  minute. 

It  may  have  been  midnight,  or  a  Httle  after,  when  all  were 
aroused  by  a  rumbhng  sound  in  the  earth,  followed  quickly  by 
two  sharp  reports  and  a  noise  like  the  crackling  and  breaking  up 
of  many  mountains.  The  little  shack  of  a  depot  was  tossed 
like  a  ship  at  sea  and  the  fumes  of  sulphur  were  nigh  overpow- 
ering. 

The  Chinamen,  half  dressed  and  in  abject  fright,  came  rush- 
ing across  the  track  to  the  depot,  and  all  were  expectant. 

"It  can't  last  this  way  much  longer  or  we'll  be  getting  to  the 
bottom,"  exclaimed  Steel,  while  dog  and  "Chinks"  yelled  in 
chorus. 

The  shake-up  lasted  three  minutes  and  then  everything 
quieted  down. 

"Ca,  ca,  ca,  br,"  came  over  the  government  wire. 

"That's  Lieutenant  Patterson  over  there  at  Fort  Bridger," 
said  Cook,  as  he  answered  the  call. 

"Yes,  they  were  badly  shaken  up  over  at  the  fort  too,  and 
the  commanding  officer  wants  to  know  how  far  down  the  line 
the  shock  was  felt." 

The  balance  of  the  night  was  spent  in  ascertaining  what 
damage,  if  any,  had  been  done  and  the  extent  of  the  niovement. 

CaHfornia  had  felt  the  earthquake,  but  in  a  mild  form  and  no 
damage  had  been  done. 

Tom  Weller  came  in  on  a  box  car  an  hour  later  and  was  put 
off  at  Carter. 

"Tom,  I'm  right  glad  to  see  you,  and  you  can  have  my  job 
here  if  we  can  fix  it  up  with  Mr.  Dickey,"  was  the  welcome  ex- 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  89 

tended  the  newcomer  by  "Biff,"  "for,  you  see,"  he  continued, 
"this  is  no  place  for  me." 

The  transfer  was  speedily  arranged  next  morning  and  Tom 
Weller  became  the  night  operator  at  Carter,  Wyoming. 

"Biff"  Cook  took  the  next  train  for  the  West,  taking  with 
him  his  faithful  "Ki,  yi,"  with  a  card  attached  to  his  collar  which 
read :     "San  Francisco  or  bust." 


"OLD  FARMER"  LAW  TON 

"Remember  you,  of  course  I  do.  You  are  the  chap  who 
sent  W  A  P  to  me  from  Kansas  City,  away  back  in  1876." 

"I  was  in  Pueblo,  and  Denver  used  to  hook  me  on  to 
copy." 

"I  used  to  get  3  words  out  of  5  and  that  was  all  that  came," 
and  old  Farmer  Lawton  shook  his  head  meditatively. 

"3  words  out  of  5  isn't  much.  What  did  you  do  with  it?" 
was  the  inquiry. 

"Oh,  I  took  it  down  to  the  newspaper  office  after  we  got 
'30,'  and  the  editor  and  I  went  over  it.  We  made  up  the  story 
out  of  what  we  could  get  and  we  sent  it  along  to  the  printers. 
Sometimes,  we  got  our  dates  a  little  mixed.  For  instance,  we 
got  Sammy  Tilden  elected  instead  of  Rutherford  Hayes  and  as 
Pueblo  was  a  good  Democratic  town,  everybody  turned  out 
that  night  to  celebrate  the  event,  but  it  seems  that  the  next 
night,  you  slowed  up  in  your  sending,  or  the  wire  was  working 
better,  and  the  following  morning  we  had  to  apologize  for  our 
mistake,  as  we  handed  the  presidency  over  to  Hayes." 

"Oh,  those  were  happy  days,"  and  the  Farmer  looked 
dreamily  into  the  past. 


90 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


VALUABLE  RELIC 

We  are  under  obligations  to  C.  F.  Annett,  of  Jerome,  Idaho, 
for  the  following  autograph  letter,  written  by  the  late  Col.  J.  J. 


C.  F.  ANNETT 


Dickey,  in  1874,  which  will  be  scanned  with  interest  by  his  many 
friends  in  the  West : 


Tri>_5 


SUPERINT^NBENT'S    OFFICE, 


CHE 


nTJfi:W-2VE;  W.  T.....^ir:C^^. :LA.. 7187^.. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  91 


TOM  WELLER'S  CHRISTMAS  PRESENT 

By  E.  W,  Collins 

TOM  WELLER,  poor  old  boy!  I  don't  know  what  became 
of  him.  He  was  a  "rounder"  many  years  ago.  The  ties  on 
the  various  railroads  have  often  echoed  to  the  sound  of 
Tom's  feet  and  the  box  cars  could  tell  some  interesting  stories 
about  him,  could  they  speak.  The  night  operators  at  the  various 
stations  along  these  same  railroads  have  been  entertained  time 
and  again  through  his  nocturnal  visits.  He  seemed  to  live  in  the 
dark  moon  of  midnight  when  ghosts  are  said  to  hold  full  sway. 
From  the  midnight  gloom  he  would  come  unheralded,  with  no 
sounding  of  trumpets  or  music  by  the  band  proclaiming  his 
arrival.  His  constant  companion  was  a  long  and  hungry  look- 
ing carpet  bag.  His  personal  appearance,  after  one  of  his  "little 
journeys,"  never  would  draw  a  prize  at  a  church  fair,  but  when 
the  bad  taste  had  been  eliminated  from  his  mouth  and  he  had 
been  "togged  out"  by  a  contribution,  there  was  a  wonderful 
transformation  and  his  wit  and  humor  made  his  presence  wel- 
come anywhere.  He  was  well  informed,  a  brilliant  conversa- 
tionalist, a  fine  singer,  and  his  fund  of  quaint  humor  was  inex- 
haustible. Among  the  younger  members  of  the  profession  in 
those  days  it  was  an  acknowledgment  of  a  neglected  education 
for  one  to  say  that  he  had  not,  at  some  period  of  his  develop- 
ment, received  a  visit  from  and  witnessed  some  of  the  wonderful 
brass  pounding  accomplishments  of  old  Tom  Weller. 

The  last  time  I  saw  the  old  man  was  in  '^2,  while  I  was 
doing  night  duty  on  the  Union  Pacific  in  Wyoming.  A  freight 
train  had  passed  west  at  about  ii  45  p.  m.  on  a  cold  night  in 
December.  I  reported  the  train  on  time,  sat  down  and  with 
eyes  covered  with  the  brim  of  my  hat,  dropped  into  a  doze.  The 
hand-made  desk  or  shelf  on  which  the  soHtary  instrument  ticked 
out  its  varied  story,  reached  from  one  side  of  the  room  to  the 
other,  a  distance  of  some  twelve  feet.  I  had  been  dozing  for 
perhaps  fifteen  minutes,  when  I  was  awakened  by  what  seemed 
to  me  the  sweetest  music  that  ever  flowed  from  mortal  lips.  In 
front  of  the  instrument  sat  old  Tom  Weller,  with  his  chair  tipped 
forward  his  head  resting  on  the  desk,  while  his  sad,  sweet  voice 
filled  the  old  depot  with  its  melody.     Imagine,  if  you  can,  a 


92  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

"rounder"  in  the  stillness  of  a  winter  night,  in  a  little  depot  away 
out  on  the  prairie,  singing  this  hymn : 

"I  will  sing  you  a  song  of  that  beautiful  land, 
The  far  away  home  of  the  soul; 
Where  no   storm  ever  beats   on  the   glittering  strand.. 
While  the  years  of  eternity  roll. 

"O,  that  home  of  the  soul  in  my  visions  and  dreams, 

Its  bright  jasper  walls  I  can  see. 
And  I  fancy  but  dimly  the  veil  intervenes 
Between  that  fair  city  and  me." 

In  the  lonely  depot  at  that  midnight  hour  the  words  and 
music  filled  my  heart  and  I  realized  then  that  old  Tom's  life  had 
not  always  been  that  of  a  "rounder. "The  religious  sentiment  born 
of  home  and  a  mother's  love  and  training,  would  bud  and  blos- 
som and  throw  its  perfume  around  old  Tom's  heart  in  spite  of 
him.  He  was  apparently  unconscious  of  my  presence,  and  when 
the  last  notes  of  the  beautiful  hymn  had  gone  upward,  the  sweet 
voice  started :  "When  You  and  I  Were  Young,  Maggie."  After 
this  song  had  been  sung  he  raised  his  head  and  I  could  see  that 
his  eyes  were  moist.  On  the  wings  of  music  he  had  been  car- 
ried back  to  happier  days,  filled  with  love  and  hope  and  joy. 
With  a  hearty,  "Hello,  old  stocking,"  he  explained  his  presence 
by  saying  that  he  just  dropped  of¥  the  ii  -.45  train  to  say  "Hello." 
I  thanked  him  for  the  compliment  and  the  entertainment  and 
pressed  him  for  a  story  of  his  career.  He  recited  the  story  of 
his  past  life,  which,  though  highly  interesting,  is  too  long  for 
this  sketch.  With  eager  eloquence  he  took  me  back  to  his  moth- 
er's bedside ;  he  led  me  gently  to  her  last  resting  place ;  he  told 
me  the  story  of  a  "nearer  one  yet,  and  a  dearer  one  still  than 
all  others" ;  he  pictured  the  old  tree  by  the  rippling  brook,  where 
he  had  carved  her  name,  which  had  since  grown  into  the  heart  of 
the  tree,  just  as  it  had  into  his.  He  told  how  another  hand  had 
carved  her  name  later  on,  this  time  on  marble,  bearing  the  words 
of  B.  F.  Taylor: 

"And  the  echo  of  her  little  life 
Shall  linger  like  a  rhyme." 

It  was  a  wonderful  story — sadly  sweet  because  so  doubly 
true. 

Soon  the  2  130  a.  m.  freight  steamed  up  to  the  depot.  I  went 
out  with  the  flag  and  lantern  and  on  my  return  I  discovered  that 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  93 

Tom  had  disappeared  as  mysteriously  as  he  had  come,  but  his 
companion  of  many  years — the  carpet  bag — remained  and  I  en- 
tertained the  thought  that  Tom  would  soon  return  to  finish  his 
story,  but  I  waited  in  vain.  I  took  care  of  the  carpet  bag  for 
two  years  and  on  Christmas  eve,  1874,  I  received  a  letter  dated 
"Los  Angeles,  California,  December  loth,  1874,"  which  read : 
"Say,  pard,  I  left  my  trunk  on  your  clicker  desk  in  1872 ;  it 
contains  all  I  have  in  the  world.  Kick  the  roof  off,  send  me  the 
testament  and  keep  the  wearing  apparel,  jewelry,  etc.,  as  a 
Christmas  present  from  me.  Yours  perpendicularly,  Tom  Wel- 
ler.  P.  S. — If  you  can't  get  the  roof  off,  send  me  the  key- 
hole by  return  mail  and  Til  have  a  key  made  to  fit  it.     T.  W." 

According  to  directions,  I  took  the  "roof  off"  and  found  in 
the  bag  a  testament,  a  thumb-worn  testament,  bearing  evidence 
of  its  having  been  a  Christmas  present  from  his  mother  years 
before.  The  "wearing  apparel,  jewelry,  etc.,"  consisted  of  a  pint 
flask  of  whiskey,  labeled  "Poison,"  and  a  pair  of  soiled  hose.  I 
mailed  the  testament  and  accepted  the  Christmas  present  in  the 
spirit  in  which  it  was  tendered,  though  I  had  no  use  for  either 
the  "poison"  or  hose. 

Poor  old  Tom !  All  phases  of  life  have  been  explored  by 
you.  The  path  that  would  lead  you  to  the  still  waters  and  ren- 
der you  susceptible  to  the  influence  of  her  whose  name  lies 
buried  in  the  heart  of  the  old  tree  as  in  yours,  and  the  "Echo  of 
whose  little  life  shall  linger  like  a  rhyme,"  certainly  must  be  a 
pleasanter  road  than  the  one  on  which  your  feet  have  left  their 
imprint  for  many  years.  Try  it  once  again,  Tom,  and  may  you 
find  on  it  a  "Merry  Christmas." 


94 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


Birmln^lT- 


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^//^./^ 


tzr[i 


■r 


r^ 


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^-^  Ml 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  95 


SECTION  IV 


TALES  OF  THE  SIERRAS 

By  Jkb'f  W.  Hayes 

ALONG  THE  SHORE 

ABOUT  a  dozen  years  ago,  B.  A.  Worthington  was  appointed 
ern  Pacific  Railroad,  with  headquarters  at  San  Francisco, 
superintendent  for  the  Pacific  Coast  division  of  the  South - 

In  falHng-  heir  to  this,  position  Mr.  Worthington  also  ac- 
quired the  private  car  of  his  predecessor,  which  had  been  named 
the  "Texas."  It  was  agreed,  however,  that  the  name  of  the 
car  should  be  changed,  as  the  former  superintendent  wanted  to 
give  that  cognomen  to  his  new  car  down  south. 

There  was  a  very  wealthy  railroad  man  in  the  East,  who 
us'ed  to  pay  a  member  of  his  family  $i,odb  a  year,  in  return  for 
which  this  member  would  find  appropriate  appellations  for  each 
new  Pullman  car  turned  out  at  the  shops. 

Not  feehng  justified  in  invoking  the  aid  of  such  an  expensive 
person,  the  new  superintendent  decided  to  select  a  name,  and 
as  the  State  of  California  contains  many  poetical  names  to  draw 
from,  the  time  card  of  the  Pacific  division  was  consulted. 

Such  names  as  "Santa  Maria,"  "Santa  Margarita,"  etc.,  were 
canvassed  and  rejected,  and  the  little  city  of  "Orilla"  seemed  to 
proffer  its  name. 

By  reference  to  a  Spanish  dictionary,  it  was  ascertained  that 
the  meaning  of  the  word  "Orilla"  was  defined,  "Along  the  Shore," 
and  as  the  name  was  poetical  enough,  and  as  his  line  of  rail- 
road ran  along  the  shore  of  the  Pacific  Ocean,  he  determined  to 
name  the  car  "Orilla." 

This  was  a  flattering  tribute  to  the  town  of  Orilla,  and  on  the 
first  appearance  of  Mr.  Worthington's  car  in  that  little  city,  the 
populace  showed  their  appreciation  by  deluging  the  car  with 
flowers. 

The  "Orilla"  had  been  refitted  throughout  and  was  very 
beautiful,  and  all  the  employes  of  the  road  hailed  its  coming,  for 
they  liked  to  see  it  and  the  popular  superintendent,  but  there  are 
contrary  spirits  the  world  over. 


96 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


One  night  the  superintendent,  with  his  private  car,  was 
coming  North,  attached  to  the  San  Francisco  Flyer,  and  stopped 
for  a  minute  at  San  Luis  Obispo,  where  the  car  inspector  came 
around  with  his  hammer  to  test  the  wheels  of  each  car.     An- 


B.  A.  WORTHINGTON 


other  functionary  was  also  on  duty  to  take  the  numbers  and 
names  of  cars. 

"Look  yere,  Chimmie,  wot.  is  dis?'*  and  he  began  spelling 
out  "0-R-I-L-L-A." 

"Begorrah,  that's  a  moighty  funny  name." 

"Yes,  dat's  de  old  man's  private  snap"  (Mr.  Worthington 
was  35  years  old  at  this  time),  "and  he  calls  it  'Orilla',"  was  the 
other's  rejoinder. 

"  'Orilla?'  'Orilla?'  begorrah  and  it  should  have  a  *g'  in  front 
of  it  and  Fm  going  to  put  one  there." 

A  can  of  black  paint  was  produced  and  quite  a  decent  letter 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  97 

"G"  was  prefixed  to  the  car's  appellation,  completely  changing 
its  euphony. 

The  two  worthies  laughed  at  their  alleged  witticism  and 
the  "Gorilla"  went  northward. 

From  his  window  in  the  middle  of  the  car  that  evening,  Mr. 
Worthington  was  a  witness  of  the  whole  occurrence,  but  wisely 
kept  silent.  He  realized  if  he  made  a  demonstration,  the  em- 
ployes would  have  a  laugh  on  him  and  jokes  travel  fast  with  men 
employed  on  a  railroad. 

Arriving  in  San  Francisco,  Mr.  Worthington  had  the  car 
put  up  immediately  in  the  shops  and  ordered  the  name  eraced 
and  the  less  poetic  name  of  "Surf"  substituted.  Of  course,  surf 
goes  along  the  shore,  so  virtually  the  title  was  not  changed. 

The  jokers  at  San  Luis  Obispo  had  no  joke  after  all,  and 
probably  will  never  know,  unless  they  read  this  story,  how  it 
happened  that  B.  A.  Worthington  so  quickly  changed  the  name 
of  his  private  car. 


A  GOVERNOR  FOR  FIFTEEN  MINUTES  TOOK  THE 
BULL  BY  THE  HORNS 

IT  was  ten  minutes  past  the  midnight  hour ;  the  last  train  for 
the  night  had  pulled  out,  and  J.  Frank  Howell,  the  night  op- 
erator at  Tin  Cup,  Ariz.,  began  preparations  for  a  little  rest. 
It  was  in  the  month  of  August,  and  the  full  harvest  moon 
beamed  down  through  the  clear  atmosphere  resplendent  and  as 


J.  FRANK  HOWELL 

bright  almost  as  the  midday  sun.  Glancing  out  towards  the 
south  trail  Howell  could  see  a  horseman  coming  at  full  speed 
towards  the  lonely  station.  A  few  minutes  later  an  active,  fine 
looking  man  hurried  in. 

7 


98  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

"I  have  a  very  important  telegram  to  send  to  the  Governor. 
I  must  get  an  answer  in  half  an  hour  or  an  innocent  man  per- 
ishes.    Come,  do  all  you  can  and  as  quickly  as  you  can." 

The  speaker  was  Lee  Heninger,  the  sheriff  of  Dos  Cabezas. 
He  had  ridden  forty  miles  since  nine  o'clock  over  the  sandy 
desert  to  Tin  Cup  hoping  to  obtain  a  reprieve  for  Bob  Beecher, 
who  was  under  sentence  to  die  at  daybreak  for  murder. 

A  few  hours  previous  a  dying  Mexican  had  confessed  to  the 
murder  for  which  Beecher  was  to  suffer.  Frank  Howell  spent 
five  minutes  in  vain  trying  to  raise  "Px."  He  knew  that  the 
night  operator  there  was  taking  press  reports  and  could  not 
hear  him.  Being,  however,  full  of  resources  he  called  up  the 
St.  Louis  office  and  sent  the  following  message :  "Chief  oper- 
ator, San  Francisco.  Have  Phoenix  answer  on  local  quickly, 
a  man's  life  is  in  jeopardy."     Signed,  "Howell,  Tin  Cup." 

It  was  with  great  joy  that  he  heard  an  answering  tick,  tick 
from  "Px"  a  few  minutes  later,  and  the  following  telegram  was 
put  on  the  wire :  "Governor  Smithers,  Phoenix :  Information 
just  elicited  that  proves  that  Beecher  condemned  to  be  executed 
at  daybreak  this  morning  is  innocent.  Please  wire  reprieve, 
not  a  minute  can  be  lost."     Signed,  "Lee  Heninger,  sheriff." 

The  operator  at  "Px,"  E.  A.  Randall,  realized  the  importance 
of  the  message  and  standing  San  Francisco  off  for  a  few  min- 
utes hastened  to  deliver  the  telegram. 

Arriving  at  the  Governor's  house,  instead  of  finding  the 
mansion  dark  and  everybody  asleep  he  was  surprised  to  observe 
a  big  crowd  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  seated  on  the  veranda, 
while  strains  of  popular  music  from  the  ball  room  filled  the  air. 
Randall  quickly  asked  for  the  Governor  on  important  business 
and  he  noticed  that  there  seemed  to  be  some  hesitancy  in  send- 
ing for  him.  Presently,  a  lady,  the  Governor's  wife,  came  to 
the  door. 

"Won't  your  business  do  in  the  morning?"  was  asked. 
Randall  replied  in  the  negative  and  the  lady  withdrew,  a  gentle- 
man appearing  to  represent  her.  "The  Governor  has  retired," 
said  this  gentleman,  "and  cannot  be  disturbed  until  morning." 

Randall  inquired  for  the  private  secretary  and  also  for  the 
Secretary  of  the  Territory  and  ascertained  that  both  these  func- 
tionaries were  out  of  town. 

"Can't  you  possibly  awaken  the  Governor?"  queried  Ran- 
dall. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


99 


0^ 


1 


% 


100  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

"No.  To  tell  you  the  truth  about  it,  the  Governor  unfor- 
tunately drank  a  little  too  much  wine  and  Warwick  whiskey 
and  he  is  dead  to  the  world ;  a  gatling  gun  would  not  arouse 
him,  and  he  is  absolutely  off  the  face  of  the  earth  until  nine 
o'clock  in  the  morning,"  was  the  information  given  young- 
Randall. 

"Then  this  glorious  territory  is  at  present  without  a  Gov- 
ernor, a  private  secretary  or  Secretary  of  the  Territory,"  ejac- 
ulated Randall.  As  he  wended  his  way  back  to  the  office,  he 
had  made  up  his  mind  what  to  do  and  proceeded  to  carry  out  his 
determination. 

He  called  up  Tin  Cup  and  sent  the  following  telegram :  "To 
Lee  Heninger,  sheriff  Dos  Cabezas :  The  reprieve  is  granted 
to  Robert  Beecher  for  ten  days.  Regular  papers  go  forward  in 
the  morning  mail."  Signed,  "H.  Y.  Smithers,  Governor,  per 
E.  A.  Randall,  acting  Governor  pro  tem." 

Ten  o'clock  the  next  morning  E.  A.  Randall  appeared  at 
the  capitol,  telegram  in  hand,  which  he  handed  the  Governor, 
who  looked  a  wee  bit  groggy. 

"Good  Heavens !"  said  the  Governor.  "This  telegram 
should  have  been  delivered  ten  hours  ago,  why  was  it  not?" 
and  the  Governor  grew  very  much  excited. 

"For  the  reason,  Governor,  that  you  were  'under  the 
weather'  and  couldn't  be  awakened,  and  there  was  nobody  in  the 
city  to  attend  to  your  business,"  replied  the  placid  Randall. 

"Then  the  poor  fellow  is  hanged  by  this  time,  and  I  am 
guilty  of  the  execution  of  an  innocent  man,^'  and  the  Governor 
broke  down  completely. 

"That  would  have  been  true  had  it  not  been  that  I  took 
the  liberty  of  usurping  your  place  for  fifteen  minutes,"  and 
Randall  showed  the  telegram  he  sent  in  reply. 

Governor  Smithers  was  overjoyed  with  Randall's  actions 
and  thanked  him  again  and  again,  and  a  few  weeks  later  he  fur- 
ther showed  his  appreciation  by  appointing  E.  A.  Randall  to  a 
lucrative  position  in  the  Territory. 

Sheriff  Heninger  arrived  in  Dos  Cabezas  in  the  nick  of  time. 
The  rope  was  already  around  Beecher's  neck  when  one  of  the 
deputies  who  was  standing  near,  spyglass  in  hand,  recognized 
his  chief  coming  down  the  trail  swinging  aloft  a  paper  which 
was  proved  to  be  the  first  and  only  official  act  of  Ed  A.  Randall, 
acting  Governor,  pro  tem. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  101 


A  NARROW  ESCAPE 


IN  the  days  of  Jhu,  Victoria,  Geronimo  and  the  rest  of  the  atro- 
cious and  blood-thirsty  family  of  Apaches,  the  little  town  of 
Willcox,  Arizona,  grew  to  some  prominence,  and  was  a  kind 
of  a  center  for  war  news. 

Wm.  J.  Grier,  Kd  L.  Pearson,  Charles  E.  Riehle,  being  some 
of  the  number  who  ventured  into  that  uninviting  field. 

It  was  certainly  a  frontier  town,  with  all  that  the  name 
implies. 

Water  had  to  be  brought  to  Willcox  for  drinking  purposes, 
and  often  cost  more  than  the  same  quantity  of  beer  would  bring- 
later  on. 

The  imported  water  would  be  carefully  scrutinized  by  the 
drinkers  and  if  there  was  a  greenish  scum  on  top  or  on  the  edge 
of  the  vat,  it  would  be  pronounced  all  right,  but  if  it  should  hap- 
pen to  be  clear  and  without  any  appearance  of  scum,  it  would  be 
passed  up  and  nobody  would  touch  it,  fearing  arsenic  poisoning. 

There  was  a  government  line  running  to  Camp  Thomas  and 
Fort  Grant,  then  the  headquarters  of  General  O.  B.  Willcox,  but 
now  abandoned  to  the  frisky  rattlesnakes,  which  grow  and  thrive 
in  this  hot  climate. 

General  Willcox  had  in  his  command  a  number  of  renegade 
Apaches,  who  served  in  the  capacity  of  scouts  in  the  United 
States  army. 

They  were  a  worthless  lot,  at  best,  and  when  they  thought 
they  had  the  upper  hand  of  a  white  man,  look  out,  for  there  was 
something  doing. 

In  some  respects  these  Apaches  were  as  vain  as  the  silliest 
girl,  and,  if  there  is  one  article  of  commerce  that  they  dehght  to 
have  more  than  another,  it  is  red  ink.  They  will  do  most  any- 
thing for  a  bottle  of  red  ink,  and  it  is  just  wonderful  how  they 
will  proceed  to  bedeck  themselves  with  it,  when  they  are  the 
happy  possessors  of  a  bottle. 

There  was  one  Apache  scout  in  this  delectable  bunch  who 
was  just  a  little  bit  tougher  than  the  rest  of  his  colleagues,  and 
he  was  known  as  ''Mickey  Free." 

This  fellow  was  small,  lithe,  furtive  of  eye,  with  a  most  vil- 
lainous countenance. 

He  used  to  hang  around  the  window  of  the  small  telegraph 
office  as  Charlie  Riehle  was  working,  and  it  was  noticed  that  he 


102  '  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

always  had  his  eyes  riveted  on  the  red  ink  bottle  on  the  operating 
table. 

In  his  own  characteristic  way,  Mickey  Free  acquainted 
Riehle  with  the  fact  that  he  would  like  to  become  the  proprietor 
of  a  bottle  of  the  carmine  stuff,  and  Riehle  carelessly  promised 
to  have  a  bottle  ready  for  him  on  the  following  day. 

An  order  was  sent  to  Charlie  Donnelly,  then  working  at  Tuc- 
son, to  ship  a  dozen  bottles  of  red  ink  the  next  day,  but  there 
did  not  happen  to  be  that  quantity  of  the  commodity  in  Arizona's 
metropolis  and  the  order  was  forwarded  to  Los  Angeles. 

An  Indian  cannot  forgive  a  promise  broken;  they  do  not 
seem  to  understand  that  there  can  be  any  good  reason  for  break- 
ing a  pledge,  and  on  the  following  day  when  Mickey  Free  was 
told  that  his  red  ink  had  not  arrived,  an  ominous  scowl  covered 
his  ugly  face,  and  he  hissed  something  between  his  teeth  which 
bode  no  good  for  Riehle. 

It  was  after  9  o'clock  that  night  when  Charlie  Riehle  retired 
to  his  tent,  where  he  slept  alone. 

He  was  just  dropping  off  to  sleep  when,  by  the  bright  light 
of  the  Arizona  moon,  the  slight  form  of  Mickey  Free  could  be 
seen  entering  the  tent,  with  a  huge  bowie  knife  in  his  hand. 

Riehle  reaHzed  that  his  time  had  come.  There  was  no  use 
pleading  for  mercy,  for  the  strange  gleam  in  the  Indian's  eyes 
almost  spelled  out  the  word  ''Revenge !" 

In  his  desperation  Riehle  yelled  out,  but  it  was  not  the 
usual  form  of  a  yell  that  he  gave  forth;  no,  it  was  the  grand 
hailing  sign  of  distress  of  the  order  to  which  he  belonged,  and, 
Mickey  Free  being  a  Free  Mason,  too,  dropped  his  hand  to  his 
side,  and,  muttering  a  few  incoherent  words,  went  away  in  the 
night,  and  was  never  seen  again  around  Willcox. 

Charlie  Riehle  recently  related  this  story,  which  he  said  for- 
ever cured  him  of  hob-nobbing  with  the  aborigines. 


KIDDING  LOS  ANGELES 

IT  is   rather  mean  to  visit   a   city,  partake  of  its   hospitality, 
and  then  go  away  and  poke  fun  at  it. 

Every  visitor  to  the  city  of  Los  Angeles  becomes,  involun- 
tarily a  willing  booster,  and  some  people  run  the  idea  into  the 
ground ;  but  to  my  story :    A  gentleman,  dressed  in  a  Prince  Al- 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


103 


/>^ 


lo^. 


(J 


i  # 


^-^^ 


104  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

bert  coat,  wearing  a  high  silk  hat,  and  carrying  a  book,  resemb- 
ling in  size  and  appearance  the  Holy  Bible  or  the  Gospel  Hymn 
book,  entered  his  automobile  one  day  in  Los  Angeles  and  head- 
ing for  the  mountains  arrived  at  his  destination,  a  little  mining- 
camp,  some  30  miles  away,  an  hour  or  two  later. 

Alighting  from  his  car  near  a  little  hotel,  he  was  immedi- 
ately accosted  by  a  sorrowful-looking  man,  who  addressed  him, 
"I'm  glad  you  have  come.  Mister,  and  I'd  like  to  have  you  do 
something  for  me." 

"All  right,  sir,  I'll  do  whatever  I  can  for  you,"  replied  the 
stranger. 

"Well,  sir,  my  wife  died  last  night  and  is  to  be  buried  today, 
and  there  is  no  one  in  the  camp  that  I  can  get  to  say  a  few  words 
of  consolation  to  my  friends;  won't  you  come  and  do  that?" 

"Certainly,  I'll  be  glad  to  do  so,"  and  taking  him  by  the  arm 
the  distressed  man  conducted  the  stranger  to  a  little  cottage, 
hard  by,  on  the  porch  of  which  were  sitting  a  number  of  men 
and  women,  in  mournful  attire. 

As  the  twain  entered  the  parlor  in  which  lay  the  body  of  the 
dead  lady,  the  mourners  followed  in,  some  standing,  some  sitting, 
but  all  attentive. 

The  man  from  Los  Angeles  with  the  ministerial  garb,  gazed 
down  into  the  coffin,  and  saw  the  remains  of  a  once  beautiful 
woman,  then  glancing  at  the  mourners,  began  his  oration. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  exclaimed,  "we  are  gathered 
here  today  to  pay  our  last  respects  to  the  dear  departed.  She 
was  beautiful  in  Hfe,  she  is  beautiful  in  death.  She  had  many 
good  friends  in  this  community  who  mourn  her  early  demise. 
She  had  a  kind  and  loving  husband"  (and  here  the  husband  be- 
gan to  bawl.)  "I  understand,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  that  she  died 
from  that  fell  Destroyer,  pneumonia.  Now,  this  is  all  wrong  and 
never  should  have  happened.  Yes,  I  say,  it  is  very  wrong,  very 
wrong." 

"Now,"  he  continued,  taking  out  his  seeming  Bible  from  his 
pocket,  and  consulting  it,  "Now  if  she  had  only  come  to  Los  An- 
geles, where  I  have  297  lots  in  the  Santa  Ana  district,  which  I 
am  selling  for  $10  cash,  and  $10  a  month,  in  installments,  with 
no  interest  on  deferred  payments,  she  would  be  a  live  and  happy 
woman  today." 

"You  have  said  enough,"  exclaimed  the  husband,  as  he  seized 
the  pseudo  minister  by  the  ear  and  led  him  from  the  room,  from 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH  105 

whence  the  unmoved  booster  took  his  car  and  hiked  back  to  the 
City  of  the  Angels. 


MAKING  OPPORTUNITIES 

IN  the  little  town  of  Brocton,  N.  Y.,  on  the  old  Lake  Shore  road, 
a  good  many  years  ago,  dwelt  an  operator  named  Frank 
Conn. 

The  young  operator  came  to  California  about  1883  and  set- 
tled in  the  beautiful  Sonoma  county,  where  he  speedily  acquired 
one  of  the  finest  ranches  in  that  part  of  the  state. 

Frank  Conn  was  a  bachelor,  27  years  old,  possessing  a  very 
romantic  side  to  his  nature. 

One  evening  he  hitched  up  his  dapple-greys  and  drove  into 
the  city  of  Petaluma  to  do  some  trading. 

He  effected  all  his  purchases  and  stopped  to  buy  the  last 
item,  a  cigar  and  some  smoking  tobacco. 

One  of  the  old-fashioned  paper  boxes,  yellow  in  color  and 
put  up  by  Lorillard,  was  among  the  articles  brought  back. 

Upon  opening  the  tobacco  package,  on  his  return  to  his 
lonesome  home,  what  was  the  astonishment  of  the  young 
rancher  to  discover  just  inside  of  the  paper,  nicely  folded  with  a 
card,  what?  Just  a  lock  of  yellow  hair  and  a  card  bearing  the 
name.  Hazel  Young,  with  her  address,  Newark,  N.  J. 

Here  was  a  lark,  and  it  took  but  a  short  time  for  the  roman- 
tic Conn  to  indite  a  letter  to  the  owner  of  the  beautiful  tress 
of  hair. 

An  impatient  fortnight  passed,  when  a  letter  came  from  the 
fair  Hazel. 

It  was  written  in  a  neat  hand,  grammar  good,  sentiments 
excellent,  leaving  nothing  to  be  desired. 

Letters  came  and  went,  photographs  were  exchanged  and 
six  months  later,  Frank  Conn  packed  a  vaHse  and  purchased  a 
ticket ;  destination,  Newark,  N.  J. 

Sixty  days  later  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frank  Conn  returned  to  So- 
noma county,  California,  where  they  are  still  living,  surrounded 
by  a  numerous  family. 

History  repeats  itself  in  various  phases,  for  instance : 

Last  summer,  "The  American  Telegrapher"  printed  an  arti- 
cle in  its  columns  regarding  a  certain  telegraph  office  in  the 


106  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

east,  and  favorably  mentioning  a  young  lady  employe  of  that 
office. 

The  article  attracted  the  attention  of  a  young  railroad  su- 
perintendent in  California,  who,  Hke  Frank  Conn,  opened  a  cor- 
respondence with  the  young  woman,  and  the  daily  papers  of 
San  Francisco  are  now  chronicling  the  marriage  of  the  said 
railroad  superintendent  and  the  eastern  lady  operator. 

Frank  Conn,  in  relating  his  story,  says  that  when  he  mar- 
ried his  bride  at  Newark,  years  ago,  the  daily  journals  got  hold 
of  the  story,  publishing  the  romance  in  all  its  details,  smilingly 
adding:  *'Six  months  after  I  returned  to  California,  there  was 
not  a  girl  in  the  tobacco  house  mentioned  whose  hair  was  not 
shingled  like  a  man's,  but  it  is  doubtful  if  any  of  them  had  such 
a  romantic  sequel." 


AN  ARIZONA  BANQUET 

THE  celestial  brother  from  the  Flowery  Kingdom  is  a  serious 
individual  and  does  not  understand  a  joke,  but  occasionally 
a  Chinaman  will  bob  up  who  possesses  as  keen  an  appre- 
ciation of  humor  as  even  a  native  of  the  Emerald  Isle. 

Enjoyment  may  be  had  in  this  life  under  seeming  difficulties 
if  one  knows  how  to  adapt  himself  to  conditions. 

It  was  during  the  Apache  war  in  Arizona,  in  1881,  that  Jim 
Burns  was  employed  as  engineer  on  the  Southern  Pacific  Rail- 
road, his  run  being  between  Tucson  and  Bowie,  a  very  undesir- 
able part  of  that  territory  at  that  time,  besides  being  the  hotbed 
of  the  Apache  atrocities. 

Jim  Burns  could  have  fun  anywhere,  and  his  greatest  sport 
when  he  reached  Bowie,  the  end  of  his  run,  was  to  go  gunning 
for  coyotes,  which  animals  infested  that  part  of  the  territory. 

He  would  generally  return  with  one,  two  or  even  three  car- 
casses of  the  coyote  family  as  a  result  of  his  prowess  with  his 
Winchester.  These  animals  were  readily  purchased  by  Fat 
Choy,  a  Chinese  laundryman,  who  paid  four  bits  for  each  carcass, 
and  the  market  was  never  glutted. 

"You  likee  coyote  steak?"  queried  Fat  Choy  of  Burns  one 
(lay. 

"Just  as  lief  eat  a  rat,"  was  the  reply. 

Several  times  the  good-humored  Chinaman  tried  to  induce 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH 


107 


^^ 


^^<«^^«^^^,^ 


"dVkjjmjpIj 


""^^-vr-. 


C0f 


l^ 


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^^^ 


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^. 


■*^tL, 


108  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

Jim  Burns  to  partake  of  his  coyote  viands,  but  was  invariably 
and  peremptorily  refused. 

Jim  Burns  got  off  his  engine  one  day  at  Bowie  feeling  a 
little  sick. 

"Yoii  likee  some  nice  soup,  some  rice  soup?"  asked  Fat 
Choy. 

"Yes,  I  think  some  rice  soup  would  do  me  good,"  replied 
Burns. 

A  big  bowl,  steaming  hot,  was  set  before  the  engineer,  who 
speedily  caused  it  to  disappear,  and,  smacking  his  lips  with 
apparent  satisfaction,  asked  for  more. 

Another  serving  was  given,  which,  too,  was  much  enjoyed. 

"I  say,  Jim  Burns,  why  you  lie  to  me  all  the  time,  Jim 
Burns?  You  he  to  me  all  the  time,  Jim  Burns,  all  the  time," 
said  Fat  Choy. 

Jim  denied  the  soft  impeachment  and  asked  for  an  expla- 
nation. 

The  Chinaman  reiterated  his  statement  that,  "Jim  Burns,  he 
lie  to  me  all  the  time,"  finally  explaining  himself  by  saying,  "Jim 
Burns,  you  tellee  me  allee  time  that  you  no  likee  coyote,  you  no 
likee  coyote,  you  no  likee  coyote  steak,  no  likee  coyote  fried. 
Why  you  eatee  coyote  soup?" 

"Holy  smoke !"  yelled  Burns,  "and  he  did  make  me  eat  coy- 
ote after  all !"  and  he  reached  for  his  rifle,  but  Fat  Choy  was  too 
quick  and  disappeared  and  was  seen  in  Bowie  no  more. 

Many  years  have  elapsed  since  this  occurrence,  and  Jim 
Burns  is  still  running  on  the  road,  but  his  colleagues  relate  the 
story  just  as  if  it  happened  but  yesterday. 


SUPAI 


SUPAI !  What  a  name !  Surely,  there  was  nothing  to  in- 
duce a  happy  twain  to  pass  their  honeymoon  there,  from 
choice. 

Life  in  Chicago  is  shorn  of  landscape  scenery,  the  most  one 
can  hope  to  obtain  being  a  view  across  the  street  when  one  is 
down  town,  and,  perhaps,  a  wider  range  of  a  block  or  two  farther 
out  in  the  city. 

So,  when  Albert  Tyler  married  his  pretty  bride,  he  deter- 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  109 

mined  to  show  her  some-  of  the  world  ere  settling  down  to  a 
prosy  state  for  life. 

Supai  is  on  one  of  the  transcontinental  roads  passing  through 
Arizona.  It  looms  up  in  the  air  nearly  two  miles  above  sea  level, 
being  the  highest  point  on  the  entire  system. 

From  this  lofty  peak,. a  view  of  the  country  for  hundreds  of 
miles  in  all  directions  can  be  obtained.  Mountains,  valleys,  des- 
ert, with  an  ever-chang^ing  cloud  effect,  is  presented  to  view, 
giving  a  panorama  effect,  which  can  be  seen  nowhere  else. 

The  accoutrements  of  the  depot,  which  included  the  tele- 
graph office,  ticket  office,  freight  office,  and  the  "home"  of  the 
Tyler  family  were  of  the  most  primitive  order,  consisting  merely 
of  an  old  box  car,  one  end  being  devoted  to  the  freight  and  ticket 
office,  the  other  to  the  telegraph  office,  the  living  room  and  sleep- 
ing apartments  of  the  Tylers  being  in  the  middle. 

Adjacent  to  the  depot,  some  hundred  yards  away,  was  a 
reservoir  of  large  dimension  and  perennial  in  supply. 

At  this  watering  place  came  all  the  cattle  and  stock  during 
the  day  and  strange  looking  wild  beasts  at  night  to  slake  their 
thirst,  both  species  always  being  careful  to  adopt  a  regular  time 
schedule. 

The  Arizona  cattle  are  the  finest  in  the  world,  being  sleeker, 
finer  bred  and  probably  better  fed  than  are  those  of  the  adjoining 
states. 

A  stockman,  named  Aaron  Hooper,  who  owned  a  big  ranch 
up  the  valley  some  20  miles,  but  plainly  visible  from  the  Supai 
depot,  was  the  owner  of  some  5,000  head  of  the  finest  cattle  in  all 
Arizona.  This  great  herd  roamed  at  will  over  an  immense 
range  on  the  slope  of  Supai,  being  watched  over  by  the  ever  vigi- 
lant cowboy. 

Every  day,  two  or  three  times,  these  cattle  would  come  to 
the  reservoir  previously  mentioned,  there  to  partake  copiously  of 
the  never-failing  spring  of  mountain  water.  It  was  a  beautiful 
sight  to  watch  the  antics  of  the  cattle  and  to  note  the  great 
importance  assumed  by  one  of  the  bulls,  "Jerry"  by  name. 

"Jerry"  was  an  immense  specimen  of  genus  bovine,  weigh- 
ing probably  a  ton  and  a  half.  His  coat  was  red  and  white 
striped  and  he  surely  looked  big  enough  and  handsome  enough 
to  be  king  of  his  tribe. 

"Jerry"  was  a  very  intelligent  beast,  and  one  of  his  self- 
imposed  duties  was  the  welfare  of  his  flock.     He  was  ever  in- 


110  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

vestigating  anything  or  place  which  might  threaten  to  bring 
danger  to  his  followers. 

The  little  depot  at  Supai  had  been  under  his  scrutiny  for 
some  time,  but  "Jerry"  generally  sought  "the  seclusion  which 
the  midnight  granted"  to  pursue  his  investigations. 

One  night,  Albert  Tyler  was  awakened  by  his  wife,  who 
nervously  told  her  spouse  of  visions  she  had  of  supposed  robbers 
and  mysterious  noises  outside. 

Arising  quickly,  Albert  tip-toed  to  the  door,  where  he  could 
plainly  hear  an  animal  breathing,  long  and  deep,  at  the  office 
door. 

Noiselessly  lifting  the  latch,  which  hung  by  a  small  string, 
he  swiftly  swung  the  door  open,  presenting  himself  in  the  bright 
moonlight  to  the  intrepid  but  astonished  "Jerry." 

Tyler  made  a  loud  "B-o-o-o-o-,"  and  swinging  his  arms, 
which  were  covered  by  a  white  night  shirt,  startled  "Jerry,"  who 
quickly  stepped  back,  causing  him  to  tumble  over  and  over  again, 
down  the  side  of  the  slope,  never  stopping  till  he  reached  the 
bottom,  500  feet  below.  Then  with  a  roar,  which  showed  how 
badly  scared  he  was,  the  bull  started  for  his  home,  where  he 
probably  had  a  wonderful  story  to  tell  to  his  constituents. 

Convinced  that  robbers  were  not  threatening  the  worldly 
possessions  of  the  Tyler  family,  sleep  again  reigned  and  visions  of 
Chicago,  free  from  landscape  and  midnight  bulls,  crowded  into 
the  dreams  of  the  young  couple,  who  soon  after  bade  a  long 
adieu  to  mountain  scenery,  "Jerry"  and  the  charming  station  of 
Supai. 


YOU'D  THINK  HE  WAS  EASY 

SAN  FRANCISCO  office,  in  1881,  was  filled  with  a  lot  of  un- 
usually bright,  happy  spirits.     They  were  all  fine  operators, 

loyal  workers,  but  always  ready  to  have  a  good  time  when 
the  occasion  offered  itself. 

All  kinds  of  jokes  would  be  perpetrated  on  a  newcomer,  and 
none  were  exempt,  only  the  same  joke  was  never  allowed  to  be 
played  more  than  once. 

Dick  Allen,  well  known  and  much  beloved  by  the  fraternity, 
came  down  from  the  frozen  North  about  this  time  and  accepted 
a  position  in  the  San  Francisco  office. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


111 


1886 


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/yo^m.  k) 


oOanam^ 


Q^^jOP'^^ivJU^ 


112  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

Dick  was  a  fine  operator  and  his  copy  was  like  copper  plate, 
but  even  this  would  not  exempt  him  from  the  hazing. 

Five  minutes  after  Dick  had  sat  down  to  the  Ogden  wire 
and  was  wrestling  "Cub,"  with  Ed  Keeler  doing  the  pitching 
at  the  other  end,  a  note  was  handed  Dick,  reading  as  follows : 
"Dear  Dick : 

"I  am  busted.     Can  you  loan  me  $2  till  payday? 

"(Signed)     Bogy." 

Instantly  Dick's  hand  dove  into  his  trousers  pocket  and  two 
iron  dollars  were  handed  the  check  boy  to  give  to  the  mysterious 
"Bogy." 

The  joker  communicated  his  success  to  his  comrade,  Sherry, 
who  immediately  sent  a  similar  note  to  the  victim,  signing  it  this 
time  "Red-Headed  McCue,"  and  pleading  for  a  loan  of  $1,  which 
was  again  promptly  responded  to.  Again  did  another  joker, 
named  Charlie  Donnelly,  obtain  a  loan  of  four  bits  in  like  man- 
ner and  under  similar  representations. 

There  was  evidently  no  end  to  Dick's  resources  and  the  word 
was  flashed  around  the  office  that  he  was  flush.  A  few  minutes 
later  the  check  boy  deposited  a  hatful  of  appealing  notes,  ask- 
ing for  loans  of  various  sums.  One  chap,  with  no  mercy  in  his 
soul,  petitioning  for  a  loan  of  $150  to  enable  him  to  buy  his  sick 
wife  a  piano. 

When  this  avalanche  of  notes  reached  Dick  Allen,  he  took 
time  to  break  the  sending  operator  and  arise  from  his  seat,  only 
to  meet  the  laughing  faces  of  two  dozen  co-workers,  and  Dick 
then  realized  that  the  boys  had  been  stringing  him. 

The  jokers  refunded  the  money  to  the  "cheerful  giver,"  and 
that  night  Dick  Allen  was  unanimously  elected  a  member  of  the 
Good  Fellows'  club. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  113 

THE  SONGS  MY  MOTHER  SANG 

WouDs  BY  Edgar  W  Collins  Music  by  W.  E.  M.  Pettee 

THOSE  ling'ring  strains,  those  sweet  refrains, 
Those  songs  my  mother  sang  to  me. 
Their  echoes  still  my  pulses  thrill. 
And  fill  my  soul  with  ecstacy ; 
While  on  the  walls  of  mem'ry's  halls 

My  mother's  picture  seems  to  hang, 

And  in  my  dreams  a  sweet  voice  seems 

To  sing  the  songs  my  mother  sang. 

(Chorus) 
"Sweet  Afton"  fine  and  "Auld  Lang  Syne," 
"John  Anderson,  My  Jo,"  she  sang, 
And  "Suawnee  River,"  flows  forever. 

Like  all  old  songs  my  mother  sang ; 
"The  Old  Arm  Chair,"  as  sweet  as  prayer, 

And  "Home,  Sweet  Home,"   her  dear  voice  rang. 

While  "Silver  Moon"  and  "Bonnie  Doon" 

Are  in  the  group  that  mother  sang. 

Round  mother's  charms  my  childish  arms 

Have  often  met  in  love's  embrace. 

And  roguish  eyes  look'd  wondrous  wise 

At  wrinkles  in  her  dear  old  face ; 
And  if,  perchance,  her  loving  glance 

Made  question  what  her  song  should  be, 
A  heartfelt  sigh  made  quick  reply — 

"Please  sing  some  good  old  song  to  me." 

(Chorus) 

But  dreamless  now  her  peaceful  brow 

In  mother  earth  is  slumbering; 
While  roses  bloom  above  her  tomb, 

And  sealed  are  lips  that  used  to  sing; 
But  when  at  last  my  life  is  past, 
And  her  sweet  face  again  I  see, 
*T would  be  my  choice  to  hear  her  voice 
-  Sing  "Home,  Sweet  Home"  again  for  me. 

(Chorus) 


114  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

VALENTINE  VOX 

By  E.  W.  Collins 

VALENTINE  VOX  was  not  the  name  given  to  him  at  his 
baptism,  but  he  was  possessed  of  many  of  the  character- 
istics of  the  hero  of  Henry  Cockton's  novel,  whose  powers 
enabled  him  to  play  many  pranks  of  an  unusual  kind,  and  from 
Charlie  Blank  he  became  Val.  Vox — at  first  to  only  a  few  of  his 
intimate  friends,  but  later  to  the  fraternity  at  large.  He  be- 
longed to  that  coterie  of  congenial  but  convivial  spirits  whose 
brass  pounding  proclivities  are  a  part  of  the  history  of  the  old 
Western  Union  office  in  Cleveland,  back  in  the  '70's,  and  what  a 
galaxy  of  good  fellows  and  what  wonderful  telegraphers  they 
were !  Al  Babb,  O.  A.  Gurley,  George  Sinclair^  George  Thomp- 
son, Ed  Stockwell,  O.  M.  Sayre,  John  H.  Simmons,  the  subject  of 
this  sketch,  and  many  other  bright  lights,  many  of  whom  have 
responded  to  the  call  of  the  Chief  Executive  in  the  Great  Beyond. 

Most,  if  not  all,  of  these  men  were  night  workers  and  off 
duty  at  I  130  A.  M.  Oh,  how  tired  some  of  them  became  be- 
tween that  time  and  daylight  from  bending  elbows  at  Ed  Kirk- 
holder's  thirst  emporium !  What  stories  they  told,  what  songs 
they  sang  and  what  poetry  was  assassinated  as  they  ushered  the 
old  day  out  and  the  new  day  in !  I  was  one  of  the  younger 
members  of  the  night  force  in  those  days,  and  had  not  taken  the 
degree  entithng  me  to  sit  with  those  experienced  knights  of  the 
key,  but  I  had  frequently  been  sent  by  the  night  chief  to  reas- 
semble the  force  to  cover  an  emergency  arising  after  they  had 
finished  their  stunts  and  had  gathered  about  the  festive  board. 
In  the  performance  of  such  duty  I  soon  became  familiar  with  the 
•^'haunts  of  men/' 

Ed  Tindall,  who  later  vanished  entirely,  no  trace  of  him 
having  since  been  found,  was  night  chief  and  one  night  an  emer- 
gency arose  an  hour  or  so  after  the  men  were  ofif  duty,  requiring 
a  larger  force  to  cover.  Tindall  had  donned  his  coat  and  hat 
and  was  himself  about  to  depart  for  home,  but  he  removed  them 
and  turned  to  me,  saying:  "Go  over  to  Kirkholder's  and  see 
how  many  members  of  the  night  force  you  can  find  and  tell  them 
to  report  at  the  office  for  duty  at  once."  They  were  all  there,  and 
in  addition,  four  operators  from  the  day  force,  all  but  one  being 
in  condition  to  work,  and  he — the  most  brilliant  of  the  bunch — 
dead  to  the  world,  having  stood  too  long  with  his  foot  on  the  rail. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


15 


1886 


s 


116  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

Vox  instructed  me  to  say  to  Mr.  Tindall  that  he  and  four 
others  could  not  report  for  duty,  as  they  were  arranging  for  a 
funeral  to  take  place  in  the  early  morning,  but  recruits  enough 
were  secured  to  take  care  of  the  emergency  call  at  the  office. 

The  next  morning  a  local  newspaper  had  an  account  of  the 
funeral  Vox  had  been  making  arrangements  for,  as  follows: 

"Oh,  Death,  where  is  thy  sting? 
Oh,  Grave,  where  is  thy  victory?" 

"In  this  morning's  early  hours,  one  carriage  and  a  hearse 
stopped  in  front  of  Ed  Kirkholder's  establishment  and  a  solemn 
little  procession  of  friends  followed  a  casket  from  the  saloon  to 
Riverside  Cemetery.  The  'dead'  man  was  a  day  telegraph  oper- 
ator, one  of  the  many  who  court  the  muse,  sing  songs  and  dally 
with  Kirkholder's  choicest  brand  of  liquid  inspiration.  He  was 
an  overloaded  member  of  a  gang  of  operators  whose  appetite 
for  liquids  in  intoxicating  draughts  had  grown  apace,  until  he 
became  a  menace  to  the  peace  of  mind  of  his  companions,  and  it 
became  apparent  to  all  that  while  his  wit  and  humor  were  scin- 
tillating, his  stories  charming,  his  muse  whimsical,  his  vocal 
selections  superb,  his  appetite  must  be  curbed  or  his  company 
shunned  by  his  friends,  and  since  this  was  the  time,  the  man  and 
the  jag,  it  fell  to  the  lot  of  the  versatile  Vox  to  devise  ways  and 
means  for  checking  the  young  man's  downward  course.  He  con- 
fided his  plans  to  an  undertaker  friend,  who  provided  a  casket, 
laid  out  the  'corpse,'  furnished  the  hearse,  the  carriage  and  the 
white  gloves,  and  it  was  a  solemn  little  party  that  wended  its 
way  to  Riverside  Cemetery. 

Arriving  at  the  city  of  the  dead,  the  pallbearers  with  bared 
heads  removed  the  casket  from  the  hearse,  but  the  white-gloved 
gentlemen  'accidentally'  dropped  the  casket,  which  struck  the 
ground  with  the  proverbial  Mull  and  sickening  thud.'  The  'dead' 
one,  thus  ruthlessly  jarred  loose  from  his  jag,  raised  himself  to  a 
sitting  position,  taking  with  him  the  lid  of  the  casket,  which 
had  been  intentionally  left  unfastened.  One  glance  about  at  the 
surroundings,  the  hearse,  the  solemn  countenances  of  his  friends 
and  hearing  the  deep-toned  voice  of  Valentine  Vox,  who  had 
stepped  behind  the  hearse,  quoting  Bryant's  Thanatopsis,  'So  Hve 
that  when  thy  summons  comes,'  etc.,  and  he  realized  the  serious- 
ness of  the  situation,  took  to  his  heels  and  ran. 

"The  whole  thing  would  have  been  really  funny,  had  it  not 
been  so  grave. ' ' 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  117 

The  gang  held  forth  at  Kirkholder's  during  the  "we  sma' 
hours"  for  many  months  after  the  above  episode  took  place,  but 
one  of  its  star  members  was  always  missing.  He  had  found 
other  company,  less  congenial,  perhaps,  but  safer.  Later  Kirk- 
holder  died,  his  place  was  closed,  and  one  by  one  the  gang  was 
scattered ;  some  reformed,  married  and  went  home  nights ;  some 
left  for  parts  unknown,  and  Vox,  becoming  lonely,  quoted  Than- 
atopsis  for  new  listeners,  drank  deeper  from  the  cup  that  cheers, 
but  also  inebriates,  until  he  was  no  longer  dependable,  lost  one 
position  after  another,  and  finally  became  more  hopeless  than 
his  friend,  whose  funeral  he  arranged  for  in  days  gone  by,  and 
who  afterwards  became  a  steady,  sober,  reliable  and  trustworthy 
man. 

The  last  time  I  saw  Vox  was  at  the  time  of  the  Chicago 
World's  Fair  when  I  was  chief  operator  at  Cleveland.  The  night 
chief  was  visiting  the  Fair  and  I  was  "filling  in"  for  him  for  a 
few  nights.  The  second  night  I  was  on  duty — about  midnight, 
when  ghosts  are  said  to  hold  full  sway — there  came  floating  in 
from  the  lobby :  "So  live  that  when  thy  (hie)  summons  comes 
to  (hie)  join  that  innumerable  (hie)  caravan."  I  knew  it  was 
Vox,  loaded  to  the  gunwilles,  because  only  in  that  condition  did 
he  flirt  with  the  muse,  and  always,  apparently,  wound  up  on  this 
one  selection,  and  he  could  not  be  induced  to  change  until  he 
became  completely  run  down  or  until — 

"Sleep,  balmy  sleep, 
Tired   nature's    sweet   restorer," 

had  him  conquered. 

He  wanted  money  on  this  occasion  and  I  hesitated  about 
letting  him  have  it  while  he  was  in  that  condition,  knowing  that 
the  bartender  at  the  first  saloon  would  have  my  money  and  Vox's 
goat.  Each  time  I  refused  him  he  started  in  afresh  on  Than- 
atopsis,  with  variations,  but  always  interspersed  with  a  "hie." 
Listening  back  I  can  hear  him  now :  "So  live  that  when  (hie) 
old  Vox  asks  you  for  some  coin  of  the  (hie)  realm,  you  go 
deeply  into  your  (hie)  pockets  and  produce.  Then  we  (hie) 
march  to  that  mysterious  (hie)  cafe,  where  all  shall  take  their 
places  and  fill  up  on  (hie)  pleasant  dreams."  When  he  found  me 
inexorable,  he  marched  off  into  the  night  and  next  morning  he 
was  found  dead  in  a  bathroom,  John  Barleycorn  having  admin- 
istered the  solar  plexus. 


118  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

If  I  ever  knew,  I  had  forgotten  where  he  was  buried,  but 
while  driving  through  a  neglected  little  Ohio  cemetery  with  the 
"corpse"  of  years  ago,  he  pointed  to  a  grave  far  off  and  alone, 
on  the  headstone  of  which  was  chiseled : 

"VALENTINE  VOX, 
Born  January  2nd,  1852. 
Died  October  30th,  1893. 

So  live  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
That  innumerable  caravan  that  moves 
To  the  pale  realms  of  shade,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not  like  the  quarry  slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams." 

And  I  wondered  if  here  Vox  had  at  last  found  that  "peace 
which  passeth  all  understanding,"  and  if  in  the  tall  grass  the 
song  of  the  thrush  was  not  sweetened  by  the  silent  influence  of 
the  sleeping  Valentine  Vox.  ^ 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH  119 


SECTION  V 


EARLY  DAYS  OF  THE  COMSTOCK 

By  Jeff  W.  Hayes 

SAND 

IT  was  Christmas  day  in  the  high  Sierras,  and  the  miners, 
ranchers  and  teamsters  were  celebrating  the  occasion  in  the 
same  way  their  fathers  and  mothers  had  done  before  them. 

Some  attended  church  service,  others,  of  the  more  rollicking 
disposition,  celebrated  in  a  more  riotous  manner,  and  all  seemed 
inclined  not  to  allow  the  hoHday  to  pass  without  some  recogni- 
tion. 

The  Nevada  and  California  Telegraph  Company  operated  its 
lines  from  Carson  City,  Nevada,  thence  passing  to  the  south,  ram- 
ifying southern  and  eastern  Nevada  and  California  for  500  miles, 
taking  in  all  the  mining  camps  in  that  remote  region. 

This  line  connected  a  complete  chain  of  mining  towns,  now 
all  but  forgotten  and  off  of  the  map. 

Burke  Spencer  was  the  lineman  and  operator  at  Mountain 
House,  Nevada,  situated  in  Antelope  valley. 

He  was  small  of  stature,  but  wiry  and  possessed  of  deter- 
mination, amounting  almost  to  stubbornness. 

His  "beat"  was  from  Genoa,  on  the  north,  to  Hot  Springs, 
on  the  south,  and  it  covered  a  most  beautiful  part  of  the  country 
during  the  summer  months,  but  wild,  cold  and  forbidding  during 
the  winter. 

Burke  was  "on  to  his  job"  all  the  time,  and  the  summer's 
heat  and  the  winter's  snow  never  deterred  him  from  the  per- 
formance of  his  duties. 

The  telegraph  company  utilized  the  large  timber  for  pole 
line,  when  practicable,  but  oftimes  were  obliged  to  cross  a  small 
barren  mountain,  which  was  generally  infested  with  millions  of 
rattlesnakes,  always  ready  to  do  business  with  the  hardy  tres- 
passer on  their  domain. 

Many  and  many  an  encounter  did  Burke  have  with  these 
reptiles  and  often  had  he  dispatched  a  lurking  panther,  or  a  too- 
daring  California  lion,  and  dangers,  such  as  these,  were  hardly 


120  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

considered  worth  the  while  mentioning.  He  had  a  stout  heart, 
and  while  not  courting  danger,  would  never  run  away  from  it. 

There  was  to  be  a  turkey  shoot  at  Jack  Frost's,  fifteen  miles 
up  the  Une  and  Spencer  had  obtained  permission  to  be  absent 
this  Christmas  afternoon,  but  was  cautioned  to  keep  his  eye 
open  for  line  trouble. 

Jack  Frost's  was  on  the  line  of  his  beat  and  distant  about 
eight  miles  from  Hot  Springs,  and  the  lineman  concluded  to  add 
business  to  pleasure  and  inspect  the  line  en  route  to  the  turkey 
shoot. 

It  was  2  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  Burke  arrived  at 
Frost's,  where  were  gathered  miners,  hunters  and  trappers,  all 
engaged  in  displaying  their  prowess  with  the  rifle. 

Spencer  was  known  all  over  the  county  as  a  crack  shot,  and 
he  certainly  proved  it  during  the  following  two  hours,  a  dozen 
or  more  of  the  toothsome  birds  being  marked  up  to  his  credit. 

Before  leaving  for  home  he  tested  the  line  and  to  his  chagrin 
found  it  was  open  south  of  him.  He  could  get  Carson,  who 
reported  that  they  had  not  heard  from  Aurora  since  noon. 

It  was  now  4  :oo  o'clock  and  growing  dark,  as  it  does  in  the 
mountains  this  time  of  the  year. 

It  was  eight  miles  to  Hot  Springs  by  the  stage  road,  the 
builders  had  not  followed  the  road,  but  constructed  the  line  up 
the  mountain  side  to  its  summit,  4,000  feet  above  Jack  Frost's 
station,  then  following  the  brow  of  the  mountain  to  Hot  Springs, 
a  distance  of  seven  miles. 

It  was  not  an  inviting  wind-up  of  the  day's  sport,  but  the 
life  of  a  lineman  is  not  a  happy  one  at  best. 

Old  Jack  Frost,  mountaineer,  prospector  and  hotelkeeper, 
in  vain  attempted  to  dissuade  Burke  from  embarking  on  his 
dangerous  mission,  pointing  out  that  night  was  coming  on,  that 
the  snow  was  deep  and  the  timber  wolves  were  many,  hungry 
and  audacious.  Others,  also,  joined  in  urging  Burke  to  wait  till 
morning,  one  singing  a  refrain  from  that  Alpine  ditty — 

"Come  back,  come  back,  the  old  man  cried, 
Come  back,  or  you'll  sure  go  died, 
Come  back  and  by  the  fire  sit," 
■'Ha,  ha,  I  do  not  care  a  bit." 

^Shoo  Fly. 

This  mocking  refrain  was  quite  sufficient  to  impel  Burke  on 
his  journey,  and  calling  his  faithful  horse,  Rodney,  he  led  the 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


121 


Q/AAHA 

Jiebraska 


^. 


'acyC^yfi-ty^^ 


122  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

way  up  the  rugged  mountain;  the  little  horse  following  Hke  a 
faithful  dog,  both  being  soon  lost  to  view  in  the  approaching 
gloom. 

The  snow  was  deep,  with  a  hard  crust  on  top,  heavy  enough 
to  support  the  weight  of  the  man  and  beast. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  the  summit  was  reached,  but  the 
trouble  had  not  been  found,  and  the  journey  toward  Hot  Springs 
began. 

Slinging  his  trusty  rifle  over  his  back,  the  lineman  mounted 
his  mustang,  believing  it  wiser  to  trust  to  that  animal's  sagacity 
to  safely  cross  the  treacherous  footing  of  the  mountain. 

Four  miles  of  this  tedious  journey  had  been  slowly  plodded 
without  discovering  the  break,  the  night  being  lighted  up  only 
by  the  uncertain  gleams  of  the  stars,  when,  presently,  man  and 
horse  were  startled  by  a  long,  mournful  cry  to  the  left  of  them, 
which  was  soon  after  responded  to  by  a  similar  noise  immedi- 
ately in  their  rear. 

The  horse  quivered  with  fear  and  excitement  and  Burke 
talked  to  him  reassuringly. 

''Coyote,  yes,  timber  wolves,"  he  said.  "Well,  let  them 
come,"  and  he  patted  his  rifle. 

Five  minutes  later,  at  a  sharp  bend  in  the  mountain,  the 
horse's  hoof  caught  in  a  piece  of  wire,  almost  resulting  in  throw- 
ing him  from  off  his  feet. 

"Here,  we  have  found  it,"  cried  Burke,  "but  we  will  have  to 
be  quick  about  making  our  repairs." 

Burke  knew  full  well  that  so  long  as  he  was  mounted  there 
was  little  danger  to  be  apprehended  from  the  timber  wolves, 
which  now,  having  scented  their  prey,  were  coming  their  way 
from  all  directions. 

A  quick  inspection  of  the  break  and  a  temporary,  but  hasty, 
repair  was  made,  as  the  wolves  were  getting  nearer,  and  their 
appearance  looked  more  aggressive. 

Remounting  his  horse,  Burke  pursued  his  way  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Hot  Springs,  still  three  miles  away.  The  repairs  to  the 
line  took  but  a  few  seconds,  the  lineman  deciding  he  would  re- 
turn the  following  day  to  finish  the  job,  the  wire,  meanwhile, 
lying  on  the  dry  snow. 

Casting  his  eye  back,  Burke  could  see  the  dark  figures  of  the 
wolves,  clearly  defined  in  the  white  snow,  notwithstanding  the 
deep  gloom  of  approaching  night. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  123 

If  one  has  never  heard  the  mournful  cry  of  a  wolf  at  night, 
he  cannot  realize  the  feeling  which  strikes  one  uninitiated  to  the 
ways  of  the  mountains,  but,  when  it  comes  to  listening  to  two 
hundred,  or  perhaps  three  hundred,  of  these  wild  animals,  the 
sound  is  sufficient  to  quake  the  heart  of  the  most  courageous. 

The  cries  presently  gave  way  to  barks  as  they  approached 
closer  and  closer.  One  of  the  wolves,  more  audacious  than  his 
companions,  gave  a  sudden  leap,  essaying  to  jump  on  the  horse's 
back,  but  he  fell  wide  of  the  mark. 

This  action  startled  the  horse,  who  slipped  and  fell,  but 
speedily  recovered  himself. 

It  was  now  time  for  action,  and  Burke  brought  his  rifle  to 
his  shoulder,  pouring  a  volley  of  destruction  in  the  wolves' 
midst,  wounding  and  killing  half  a  dozen  of  the  beasts. 

The  shots  checked  the  approach  of  the  wolves,  and  they  im- 
mediately attacked  their  wounded  and  dead  comrades,  quickly 
devouring  them. 

Burke  had  reloaded  and  was  pursuing  his  journey  onward, 
using  much  caution,  as  the  slightest  misstep  would  precipitate 
himself  and  his  faithful  horse  down  into  the.  canyon,  a  mile 
below. 

The  taste  of  blood  had  now  excited  these  miserable  dwellers 
of  the  mountain  and  their  cries  and  barks  increased,  but  Spencer 
was  undaunted. 

The  mustang  seemed  to  imbibe  the  courageous  spirit  of  his 
master,  and  cautiously,  but  earnestly,  trudged  along. 

Again,  did  Spencer  stop  in  his  tracks,  turn  his  face  to  the 
beasts,  and  again  did  seven  or  eight  of  them  drop,  only  to  be 
immediately  devoured  by  their  companions. 

Several  times  was  the  same  experience  enacted,  and  it 
looked  as  if  the  wolf  tribe  in  Antelope  valley  would  be  anni- 
hilated were  the  distance  to  Hot  Springs  lengthened. 

Burke  was  about  facing  a  new  dilemma.  His  cartridge  belt 
fell  down  into  the  snow  and  it  was  positively  dangerous  now  to 
think  of  dismounting  to  recover  it.  Husbanding  his  ammuni- 
tion and  accelerating  his  speed,  Burke  at  length  arrived  within 
sight  of  the  Hot  Springs  hotel,  from  the  front  of  which  flashed 
a  bright  light. 

The  noise  of  the  shots  had  brought  some  half  a  dozen  of  the 
guests  to  the  front  with  their  rifles,  but  the  army  of  wolves', 
realizing  their  approach  to  civilization,   sat   down   upon  their 


124 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


DBPS 


^(Q/^u}:..-^^^^-^-^ 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


125 


W.  C.  BLACK 


GRACE  AllNOLD 


GRACE  CORKEO 


RUTH  NEAVE 


126  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

haunches  for  a  minute,  uniting  in  one  last  mournful  yell,  and 
then  beat  their  way  back  to  their  lairs. 

Upon  arriving  at  the  hotel,  Spencer  called  up  Aurora  and 
found  that  the  line  was  working  all  right,  and  he  was  warmly 
commended  for  his  excellent  work. 

Retracing  his  steps  the  following  morning  to  make  perma- 
nent repairs  to  the  line,  a  scene  of  carnage  extending  for  a  dis- 
tance of  more  than  two  miles  met  his  gaze.  The  cartridge  belt 
was  found,  but  all  chewed  to  pieces  by  the  hungry  beasts. 


EARLY  DAYS  OF  THE  COMSTOCK 

TO  the  telegraph  artist  of  the  present  day  it  would  appear  a 
trifle  ridiculous  to  listen  to  a  story  of  an  operator  with  a 
bank  account  of  $1,000,000  wasting  his  life  in  a  telegraph 
office  to  earn  a  measly  $115  per  month.  Such  a  man's  inten- 
tions would  be  criticized  if  the  fact  of  his  great  wealth  were 
known,  but  people  of  the  early  Comstock  days  were  prone  to 
cheerfully  mind  their  own  business,  and  in  their  own  chase  for  the 
nimble  dollar  their  brother's  success  would  hardly  concern  them. 

The  office  in  Virginia  City,  Nevada,  was  presided  over  by 
George  Senf,  who  was  known  far  and  wide  by  the  nickname  of 
"Graphy." 

"Graphy"  was  very  popular  with  the  mine  owners,  the  gen- 
eral public  and  his  office  staff. 

He  was  a  man  of  fortune,  but  owing  to  his  speculative  de- 
sires fortune  varied  according  to  the  temper  of  the  stock  market. 

A  young  Canadian  named  Johnnie  Skae  was  an  operator  in 
Virginia  City  about  this  time.  He  excelled  as  an  operator,  was 
a  good  financier,  with  an  eye  open  at  all  times  to  make  a  dollar, 
and  not  overly  conscientious  as  to  the  methods  employed,  so  long 
as  it  came  within  the  pale  of  the  law. 

Jim  Keene  was  a  leading  stock  broker  in  San  Francisco, 
and  he  would  pay  frequent  visits  to  the  Comstock,  where  he 
got  acquainted  with  young  Skae,  and  evidently  showed  him 
"how  to  get  rich  quick." 

Skae  proved  to  be  a  very  apt  pupil,  and  it  was  noticeable 
that  he  would  disappear  into  an  ante  room  several  times  a  day, 
from  which  he  would  emerge  with  a  piece  of  paper  in  hand. 
The  pilgrimages  to  the  outer  room  were  made  chiefly  after  a 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  127 

bunch  of  telegrams  from  the  office  of  the  Bonanza  firm  had 
been  filed. 

These  operations  continued  for  several  months,  no  one 
being  at  all  suspicious  of  an  underground  line  between  the  Com- 
stock  and  San  Francisco,  but  one  day  it  became  certain  to  the 
mine  owners  that  there  was  someone  at  work  giving  advance 
news  to  Jim  Keene  of  the  contents  of  telegrams  filed  at  Vir- 
ginia City. 

Some  of  the  men  were  dismissed,  but  the  leak  still  contin- 
ued, until  it  was  decided  that  the  "faithful"  Johnnie  Skae  be 
removed.  He  was  such  an  exemplary  young  man  that  he  had 
diverted  suspicion  from  himself  up  to  this  time. 

It  grieved  "Graphy'*  very  much  to  discharge  the  young  Can- 
adian. When  he  told  him  of  the  orders  from  the  San  Francisco 
office  affecting  his  position,  "Graphy"  expressed  his  regrets  and 
said:  "Johnnie,  I  am  very  sorry  about  this  and  I  hope  that  I 
will  be  able  to  get  you  a  job  somewhere  else  around  town.  It  is 
hard  to  be  thrown  out  of  job  in  the  middle  of  winter,  Johnnie, 
and  I  wish  that  I  did  not  have  to  fire  you." 

Skae  thanked  the  manager  for  his  kindly  expressions  and 
invited  him  across  to  "66,"  a  noted  cafe  in  those  days,  to  take 
a  drink. 

"If  you  want  to  go  to  San  Francisco  Til  loan  you  a  little 
money  to  do  so,"  said  the  kind-hearted  Senf. 

"That's  exceedingly  nice  of  you,  Graphy,"  replied  Skae, 
"but,  you  see,  I  have  been  looking  for  just  such  a  move  as  this 
from  the  Bonanza  kings  and  I  have  been  saving  up  a  little,  as 
you  can  see  from  my  bank  book  which  I  have  just  had  bal- 
anced." 

Producing  the  pass  book,  to  Graphy's  astonishment  there 
was  a  balance  to  Skae's  credit  shown  of  $960,000. 

"Yes,"  continued  Skae,  "I'm  sorry  that  I  could  not  have  re- 
mained two  days  longer  and  I  could  have  added  $40,000,  mak- 
ing me  a  milHonaire." 

The  jig  was  up,  the  story  leaked  out  into  the  newspapers, 
and  newer  and  more  intricate  crytographs  were  compiled,  and 
all  operators  of  the  "meek  as  Moses"  type  were  carefully  scru- 
tinized ere  securing  employment  in  Virginia  City  office. 

Johnnie  Skae  became  a  great  mining  speculator,  bringing 
about  the  famous  Sierra  Nevada  deal,  which  shook  the  country 
about  1878,  making  and  unmaking  many  millionaires. 

Skae  eventually  went  broke  and  died  a  pauper. 


128  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

WHEN  GOLD  HILL  WAS  A  HUMMER 

IN  the  '70's  Gold  Hill,  Nevada,  was  a  very  lively  camp,  being  the 
home  tov^n  of  several  United  States  Senators  who,  later  on, 
made  their  mark  at  the  Nation's  capital. 

The  number  of  dividend-paying  mines  was  large  and  this 
city,  adjacent  to  Virginia  City,  was  wealthy  and  prosperous. 

The  town  began  at  the  Divide  and  descended  by  an  easy 
grade  to  Devil's  Gate  and  Silver  City,  two  miles  to  the  East. 

What  was  well  known  as  the  "Washoe  Zephyr,"  facetiously 
called  by  the  daily  papers  of  that  day,  originated  in  the  Washoe 
district,  finding  its  way  through  the  Bullion  ravine  and  bursting 
with  all  its  fury  on  the  innocent  mining  town,  carrying  all  loose 
portable  objects  in  its  way. 

It  was  great  sport  in  those  days  to  pack  a  dozen,  or  more, 
empty  oil  cans  to  the  Divide  and  turn  them  loose,  one  at  a  time, 
watching  the  queer  antics  which  the  Washoe  zephyr  played  with 
them  on  their  long  three-mile  journey  to  Devil's  Gate. 

The  telegraph  boys  were  the  promoters  of  this  kind  of  sport, 
the  telegraph  office  being  near  the  Divide,  where  John  M.  Bell, 
now  with  the  Federal  Telegraph  Company  at  Tacoma,  Wash., 
officiated  as  operator.  A.  J.  Booth,  now  of  195  Broadway,  was 
also  working  in  Gold  Hill  in  that  far-off  period. 

Adjoining  the  telegraph  office  at  Gold  Hill  to  the  west  was 
a  bank,  and  next  to  that  was  Wells,  Fargo  &  Co.'s  express  office, 
and  on  the  other  side  of  the  telegraph  office  was  a  Chinese  laun- 
dry, conducted  by  one  Wing  Fat,  an  Oriental,  wide-awake  and 
progressive. 

Like  most  of  his  white  brothers,  the  Mongolian  dabbled  in 
stocks,  sometimes  with  lucky  results.  He  was  particularly  fond 
of  spending  an  hour  each  day  around  the  telegraph  office,  read- 
ing the  stock  quotations  and  listening  to  the  mining  gossip. 

Wing  Fat  was  very  friendly  with  young  Bell,  whose  efforts 
at  drawing  and  lettering  he  very  much  admired. 

"I  say.  Mister  Bell,  I  likee  you  to  paintee  me  a  sign  for  my 
place,"  said  the  Chinaman,  addressing  the  operator. 

"All  right,"  replied  Bell,  "I'll  be  glad  to  do  it.  What  shall  I 
say  on  the  sign?" 

"Oh,  tellum  that  Wing  Fat  does  washee  and  ironing  here." 

"Shall  I  say  you  do  it  cheap?"  asked  Bell. 

"Yes,  tellum,  cheapee,  belly  dam  cheapee,"  was  the  reply. 

A  couple  of  2x4's  were  speedily  constructed  to  serve  as  a 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


129 


y  Utah.^ 


-jiQiUj!- — o — 


?v 


130  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

frame  and  a  piece  of  stout  canvas  was  stretched  on  both  sides 
and  ornamented  with  a  coat  of  deep  red  paint,  which,  after  dry- 
ing, passed  into  the  hands  of  Johnnie  Bell,  who  performed  his 
portion  of  the  task  right  well. 

The  sign  became  conspicuous  for  its  pecuHar  wording  more 
than  it  did  for  its  artistic  finish,  and  many  a  miner  as  he  walked 
up  and  down  past  the  laundry,  dinner  bucket  in  hand,  would 
crack  a  smile,  unnoticed  by  the  smiling  Oriental,  who  was  proud 
of  the  new  piece  of  furniture  added  to  his  plant. 

A  month  went  by  and  John  M.  Bell  was  getting  ready  to 
leave  for  another  camp,  and  He  was  informed  by  Wing  Fat  that 
"business  was  muchee  good  since  he  put  up  the  signee." 

The  Washoe  zephyr  blows  still  with  mighty  force,  as  it 
issues  out  of  Bullion  ravine  and  comes  screaming  down  toward 
the  Gate  of  the  Devil,  carrying  in  its  erratic  course  tailings  from 
the  many  abandoned  worked-out  mines,  once  so  productive. 

The  telegraph  office,  bank,  express  office  and  daily  paper 
have  long  ago  ceased  doing  business  in  Gold  Hill,  and  but  few 
people  are  there  left  to  tell  the  story  of  its  previous  grandeur. 

The  wind  blew  down  the  laundry  sign  of  Wing  Fat,  but  that 
individual  picked  it  up  and  nailed  it  securely  to  the  side  of  the 
building,  where  the  lonely  passer-by  can  still  distinguish  the  fol- 
lowing legend: 

"Wing  Fat, 

Washee  and  ironing  done, 

Belly  dam  cheepee." 


"7  TIMES  7  AM  42" 

Mr.  L.  K.  Whitcomb,  district  commercial  superintendent  at 
Dallas,  is  No.  7  on  our  Hst  of  subscribers.  Seven  is  a  complete 
number,  the  Bible  says,  and  many  think  it  a  lucky  number. 
Here  is  what  Janitor  Jim  Brown  says  about  that: 

"There  was  a  raffle  for  a  gold  watch  de  other  night  down 
at  Dollar  Bill,  and  I  wanted  to  win  dat  timepiece.  I  said  to 
Dollar  Bill:  'Bill,  gimme  ticket  No.  7,'  but  he  told  me  dat 
number  was  took.  I  den  walked  around  7  blocks  and  said, 
'Well,  if  7  am  a   lucky  number,  why  7  times   7  am  a   luckier 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  131 

number.'     I  says,  *7  times  7  am  42.'     I  went  in,  bought  ticket 
No.  42,  and  won  de  watch." 


CREATING  A  NEW  POSITION 

SOME  years  ago,  there  was  an  old  stage  driver,  who  operated 
throughout  Nevada  who  was  known  all  over  the  states  by 
his  nickname  only,  "Stub." 

This  individual  also  assisted  in  distributing  the  mail  along 
his  line  of  travel. 

One  day,  he  found  a  letter  in  his  pouch  addressed  William 
Henry  Gillespie,  but  after  diligent  inquiry  he  brought  the  letter 
back  to  the  postman,  stating  that  he  could  find  no  such  man  on 
his  route. 

"Ain't  that  your  name  away  back  in  Maine?"  queried 
Johnnie  Bell,  the  telegraph  operator,  at  Candelaria. 

"Well,  I'll  be  gosh  jiggered  if  yez  ain't  right,  and  I  had  for- 
gotten my  own  name,"  said  "Stub,"  as  he  seized  his  home  letter. 

The  other  day  I  sent  a  note  up  to  the  15th  floor  of  the  W.  U. 
building  addressed  to  "Alfred  B.  McCoy,"  but  after  faithful  in- 
quiry the  messenger  reported  his  inability  to  find  the  gentle- 
man. 

The  address  on  the  note  was  then  changed  to  read,  "Baldie" 
McCoy,  which  resulted  in  instantaneous  delivery. 

Alfred  B.  McCoy  worked  in  Virginia  City,  Nevada,  in  the 
"early  days,"  as  the  late  John  W.  Mackey  used  to  love  to  call 
them. 

It  was  a  rather  free,  go-as-you-please  sort  of  a  place,  and 
nobody  would  ever  get  into  trouble  there,  as  long  as  he  did  any- 
ways near  like  the  right  thing. 

They  were  a  rollicking  lot,  not  necessarily  riotous,  but  yet 
not  quite  built  on  the  Sunday  school  pattern. 

McCoy  had  a  partner  in  the  Virginia  City  office  named  Eu- 
gene H.  Sherwood,  who  did  not  need  any  coaching  when  it  came 
to  playing  pranks,  and  the  twain  were  the  life  of  the  office. 


132 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


Mr.  John  W.  Mackey  was  a  frequent  visitor  to  the  operating 
room,  where  he  would  spend  an  hour  or  two  every  evening 
reading  advance  copy  of  the  press  reports  as  they  were  received 
over  the  wires. 

Mr.  Mackey  was  deeply  interested  in  the  telegraph  business 
and  would  often  remark,  that  "perhaps,  some  day,  I  may  have 
a  telegraph  Hne  of  my  own." 

Who  knows  but  what  these  visits   to  the  telegraph  office 


JOHN  W.  MACKEY 


really  resulted  in  the  present  splendid  property,  known  as  the 
"Postal  Telegraph  Cable  Company?" 

"Baldie"  McCoy  would  sit  at  the  wire  copying  from  Mike 
Conway,  at  Salt  Lake,  and  making  Joe  Wood  at  Sacramento,  or 
George  Bowker  or  Cap  Dennis,  at  San  Francisco,  do  his  break- 
ing, Virginia  City  being  the  nearest  to  the  sending  office.  In 
this  way  the  foxy  chap  acquired  another  appellation  of  "Never 
Break  Baldie,"  which  suited  him. 

It  may  have  been  jealousy,  or  it  may  have  been  just  the 
Old  Nick  that  instigated  Sherwood,  whom  we  all  called  "Sherry," 
to  put  up  a  job  to  make  Baldie  break. 

Mr.  Mackey  had  passed  the  cigars  around  as  usual  and  had 
settled  himself  down  to  read  the  day's  doings,  as  told  in  the  press 
dispatches,  when  "Sherry"  began  to  gather  all  the  refuse  paper 
there  was  in  the  room. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


i:i3 


BUFFAID.NY. 


1886 


^  A'"^ 


cM. 


.^^K/^^-iZ'^5«5^b<?C-^ 


c^^ 


134  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

Several  newspapers  and  the  litter  from  the  waste  paper 
baskets  were  carefully  gathered  up  and  as  carefully  deposited 
under  McCoy's  chair,  that  individual  being  entirely  obHvious  to 
what  was  going  on,  so  intent  was  he  in  copying  Mike  Conway's 
doubtful  Morse  without  breaking. 

A  mass  of  rubbish  had  now  been  accumulated  and  placed  un- 
der the  receiver's  chair,  and  applying  a  lighted  match  to  the 
debris,  a  miniature  conflagration  ensued. 

McCoy  was  the  last  to  notice  what  was  going  on,  but  his 
trousers  catching  fire  brought  his  attention  to  the  blaze. 

Quickly  he  opened  his  key  and  said  **bk"  and  with  a  well  de- 
livered kick  he  dispelled  the  incipient  fire. 

"I  don't  care  for  my  pants,"  remarked  Baldie  afterwards, 
**but  I  do  mind  spoiling  my  record  for  not  breaking  that  fellow 
at  Salt  lyake." 

Mr.  Mackey  was  a  witness  to  the  episode  and  when  it  was 
explained  why  the  joke  was  perpetrated,  he  laughed  heartily. 

A  few  days  later,  in  rummaging  over  their  room,  Baldie 
found  a  high  silk  plug  hat,  the  size  being  the  unusual  one  of 
7  1-2. 

"What  shall  we  do  with  it?"  they  asked  each  other,  for  the 
hat  was  nearly  new,  but  it  was  no  joke  for  a  man  to  wear  a  plug 
hat  in  Virginia  City,  and  then,  again,  the  size  was  so  big  that  it 
would  be  difficult  to  find  a  person  to  fit  it. 

"I  got  a  scheme,"  said  Sherry,  "let's  go  and  give  this  hat  to 
Captain  Sam,  chief  of  the  Piutes." 

"Good  idea,  and  we  will  make  it  a  national  affair,  too," 
quoth  McCoy. 

An  hour  later  the  two  companions  were  climbing  the  rugged 
Mt.  Davidson,  where  Captain  Sam  was  making  his  temporary 
home. 

Several  parties  of  ladies  of  the  first  families  of  Nevada  were 
busily  engaged  in  playing  a  desultory  game  of  Indian  poker, 
while  the  omnipresent  papoose  and  Indian  dog  nestled  closely 
to  each  other  in  the  shade  of  the  sage  brush  and  grease  wood. 

Johnson  Sides,  premier  to  the  chief  of  the  Piutes  stalked 
forth,  and  it  was  he  whom  the  wire  men  addressed. 

"Send  out  your  swiftest  runner  and  get  Captain  Sam  in,  we 
have  a  message  for  him  from  the  big  chief  of  the  wiregraph  at 
Washington."  This  was  the  message  the  premier  received, 
and  calling  an  athletic  youn^  buck,    the     communication     was 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  135 

translated  into  Indian  jargon,  the  runner  disappearing  from  view 
instantly. 

Th€  two  operators  continued  the  ascent  of  Mount  Davidson, 
assuring  Mr.  Sides  that  they  would  return  in  two  hours,  carrying 
with  them  the  plug  hat  which  was  intended  as  a  present  to  Cap- 
tain Sam. 

Four  o'clock  arrived  and  the  two  young  men  had  wended 
their  way  back  to  Captain  Sam's  wickiup,  where  they  found  the 
expectant  captain. 

After  some  prehminary  salutations,  Baldie  McCoy  began 
his  oration. 

"Captain  Sam,  great  chief  of  the  Piute  nation,  I  come  from 
the  great  father  of  the  wiregraph.  He  sends  good  words  to 
you  and  to  your  squaws,  your  papooses  and  to  Mr.  Johnson 
Sides,  your  secretary  of  state.  Captain  Sam,  noble  head  of  a  no- 
ble nation,  the  great  father  of  the  wiregraph  has  ordered  me  to 
bring  to  you  this  elegant  silk  tile,  which  he  hopes  will  fit  you 
and  which  is  to  be  the  insignia  of  another  new  honor  which  he 
wishes  to  confer  upon  you. 

''This  hat  makes  you,  not  only  the  big  chief  of  a  big  nation, 
but  as  long  as  you  wear  it,  you  will  be  big  chief  of  the  wire- 
graph  in  the  White  Pine  country  of  Nevada.  Captain  Sam,  1 
now  salute  the  Supervisor  of  the  White  Pine  wiregraph,  and 
hope  you  may  live  long  and  be  happy." 

The  hat  proved  to  be  a  perfect  fit,  and  Captain  Sam  really 
did  look  some  pumpkins  when  he  donned  it. 

It  is  doubtful  which  honor  pleased  the  aborigine  the  most, 
the  present  of  the  plug  hat,  or  the  creation  of  a  new  title,  with- 
out salary,  as  Supervisor  of  the  White  Pine  Hne,  but  it  is  a 
matter  of  record  that  from  that  day,  there  was  much  less  wire 
trouble  on  the  dear  old  White  Pine  circuit. 

Years  have  passed  since  the  foregoing  episode  shook  the 
legendary  history  of  the  Piute  nation. 

The  late  Mrs.  James  G.  Fair  built  a  home  for  Captain  Sam 
and  his  family  at  the  "Homestead,"  adjacent  to  the  city. 

The  occasion  was  celebrated  by  a  grand  barbecue.  A  piano 
was  one  of  the  articles  of  furniture  presented  by  Mrs.  Fair,  in 
hopes  that  some  of  the  doughty  captain's  children  might  be 
musically  gifted. 

The  wily  chief  of  the  Piutes  gave  his  followers  an  exhibition 


136  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

on  the  piano,  which  raised  the  chief  still  higher  in  their  estima- 
tion. 

Too  much  civilization  is  not  good  for  an  Indian,  and  the 
erstwhile  "Supervisor  of  the  White  Pine  Telegraph  line"  suc- 
cumbed to  the  insidious  disease,  pneumonia. 


AN  UNPARALLELED  CASE. 

THE  telegraph  companies  have  taken  much  precaution  to 
safeguard  their  money  transfer  system  and  to  render  it 
practically  impossible  for  any  person,  or  coml)ination  of 
persons,  to  defraud  these  corporations,  without  a  very  speedy 
detection  and  accompanying  punishment. 

Ordinarily,  this  will  work  out,  but  Bobbie  Burns  truthfully 
says :     **The  best  laid  plans  of  mice  and  men  gang  aft  aglee." 

It  would  not  be  wise  to  publish  the  following  story  if  there 
was  a  chance  of  history  repeating  itself  by  a  Hke  occurrence, 
but  the  same  conditions  could  hardly  take  place  again,  and  as 
the  story  has  a  moral  and  an  object  lesson,  for  both  companies 
and  managers,  I  feel  free  to  relate  it. 

The  history  of  the  case  was  related  to  me  by  the  chief  actor, 
who  dwelt  with  diabolical  glee  and  satisfaction  upon  the  part  he 
took  in  the  transaction,  evidently  believing  in  his  entire  lack  of 
moral  uprightness,  that  he  was  entitled  to  some  credit  and  con- 
sideration for  showing  the  way  to  overcome  well  intrenched 
safeguards  around  the  company's  treasure  box. 

The  following  is  the  story : 

It  occurred  during  the  Nation's  Centennial,  that  a  man  whom 
we  will  call  Sam  Pitcher,  was  manager  for  the  Western  Union 
at  Reno,  Nevada. 

Pitcher  had  somewhat  of  a  checkered  career,  prior  to  his 
appointment  to  the  Reno  office,  but  he  was  shrewd  and  a  good 
operator,  which  counted  for  much  in  those  days. 

An  uneasy  feeling  pervaded  the  entire  Pacific  Coast.  Mil- 
lionaires were  made  and  unmade  every  day,  and  the  daily  occur- 
rences would  read  like  a  romance. 

The  bootblack,  the  barber,  the  woman  who  washed  your 
soiled  linen,  even  your  messenger  boys  became  rich  while  they 
slept. 

Pitcher  wanted  to  become  wealthy,  too,  and  did  not  care 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


137 


1886 


A. (P.  Va. 


J,.  Tiaun^JL  ■ 


'^2<>n^      ^       .      c/^^%y 


^     f.         CLU^, 


CuJut^^^ju^ 


cz  ^^J^-^^Stj-A^o^-OT^ 


138 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


much  by  what  means  he  accomplished  that  result.  Opportuni- 
ties seemed  plentiful,  but  apparently  did  not  come  exactly  within 
his  grasp. 

All  of  the  overland  wires  came  into  the  Reno  office,  and 
were  looped  into  the  Virginia  City  office,  the  big  repeating  point 
in  those  days. 

The  office  at  Gold  Hill,  just  over  the  Divide  from  Virginia 
City,  had  two  wires  looped  into  that  place,  but,  as  a  general 


C.  M.  BAKER 


thing,  they  used  but  one  wire,  and  that  was  known  as  the 
"stock"  wire. 

Horace  Jones  worked  the  "stock  wire"  in  San  Francisco  and 
Thomas  J.  Baldwin,  sometimes  called  "Judge,"  and  "Lucky" 
Baldwin,  worked  the  Virginia  end.  Abe  Booth,  then  a  stripHng, 
17  years  old,  worked  in  Gold  Hill.  Although  but  a  boy,  Abe 
could  hold  down  his  end  with  the  best  of  them.  He  was,  how- 
ever, a  wee  bit  careless,  like  most  boys  of  that  age,  and  it  was 
upon  this  fact,  which  was  known  to  Pitcher,  that  the  latter  con- 
ceived and  carried  to  a  successful  culmination,  a  plan  daring  as 
it  was  diaboHcal. 

Pitcher  paid  a  visit  to  Gold  Hill  one  Sunday  and  inciden- 
tally came  across  the  money  transfer  ciphers  of  that  office.. 

Quickly  he  made  note  of  the  next  cipher  word.  Special. 


Of  the  telegrapM  139 

Neither  Booth,  nor  the  manager,  Samuel  W.  Chubbuck,  hap- 
pened to  be  around  when  Pitcher  was  making  his  memoranda, 
and  neither  knew  that  he  was  in  their  city. 

During  his  ride  back  to  Reno,  he  formulated  his  scheme.  He 
would  beat  the  telegraph  company  and  they  never  could  fasten 
the  guilt  on  anyone.  So  adroit  was  to  be  the  scheme  that,  al- 
though the  dark,  lurking  clouds  of  suspicion  might  cast  a  shadow 
on  him,  there  was  absolutely  no  way  to  convict  him  of  dishon- 
esty. And  then,  what  a  laugh  he  would  have  all  to  himself;  he 
chuckled  over  the  success  of  his  prospective  scheme. 

Two  days  later,  there  was  a  movement  in  the  stock  market 
and  stocks  were  soaring  to  the  skies,  and,  here  was  the  oppor- 
tunity that  Pitcher  was  anticipating. 

As  previously  related,  the  stock  wire  looped  into  Virginia 
City  and  Gold  Hill  via  Reno. 

About  II  a.  m.  Pitcher  grounded  the  stock  wire  at  Reno  and 
sent  the  following  message : 

No.  36,  D.  H.  Transfer. 

Gold  Hill,  Nevada,  July  23,  1876. 
To  Transfer  Agent, 

San  Francisco,  Cal. 
Pay  John  Agne ;  will  arrive  on  train  from  east  today,  Reno, 
Nev.,  Special from  James  Agne,  Gold  Hill.     Cau- 
tion. 

Signed,  S.  W.  Chubbuck, 

Office  Manager. 

"O.  K."  said  Horace  Jones  and  Pitcher  removed  the  ground 
to  find  Virginia  City  frantically  calling  for  a  rush  stock  message. 

A  few  minutes  later,  Abe  Booth,  at  Gold  Hill,  called  "S.  F." 
for  "rush." 

He  began,  "No.  36,"  but  Jones  broke,  saying,  "Your  next 
number  is  37." 

"O.  K."  repHed  Abe,  believing  he  must  have  sent  a  message 
and  neglected  to  put  down  the  number  and,  as  this  was  a  very 
important  telegram  he  would  not  take  time  to  verify  the  number 
sheet. 

Pitcher  was  bending  over  the  wire  in  Reno,  with  an  anxious 
look  on  his  face,  and  with  his  heart  in  his  throat,  but  when  he 
heard  the  challenge  and  Gold  Hill's  reply  to  make  it  No.  37,  he 
knew  that  the  success  of  his  nefarious  designs  was  assured. 


140  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

He  jumped  three  feet  into  the  air,  giving  vent  to  fiendish 
chuckles  and  tickling  his  own  ribs  in  the  ecstacy  of  his  emotions. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  San  Francisco  called  Reno  on  the  stock 
v^ire  and  to  prevent  Gold  Hill  hearing  what  might  come,  the 
ground  was  again  resorted  to.  The  following  message  came 
over  the  wire : 

San  Francisco,  Cal.,  July  23,  1876. 
To  Sam'l  Pitcher, 
Reno,  Nev. 
Pay  John  Agne,  will  arrive  on  today's  train  from  the  east, 

Special  . .. from  James  Agne,  Gold  Hill,  Caution. 

Signed, , 

Transfer  Agent. 

"Hooray!"  shouted  Pitcher,  as  he  removed  the  ground,  and 
danced  a  regular  jig  all  around  the  room. 

But  he  was  not  yet  out  of  the  woods;  he  had  much  diplo- 
matic work  to  do. 

A  prominent  banker,  a  former  operator,  by  the  way,  was 
consulted. 

*T  have  a  transfer  to  pay  a  man  who  just  arrived  on  the 
west  bound  train.  It  is  for  $500  and  the  sender  has  waived  iden- 
tification. The  payee,  however,  has  letters  from  his  brother, 
advising  that  he  was  going  to  send  the  money  by  telegraph,  etc. 
The  payee,  Pitcher  further  told  the  banker,  had  a  ring  with  his 
name  engraved  on  the  inside  and  possessed  a  watch  with  sim- 
ilar engraving.  He  had  letters  galore,  addressed  to  him  from 
his  brother  in  Gold  Hill,  etc. 

The  banker,  who  was  a  very  level-headed  man,  stated  that 
he  would  not  hesitate  to  pay  a  money  transfer  under  similar  cir- 
cumstances, inasmuch,  too,  as  identification  was  waived  and  the 
manager  was  allowed  so  much  more  leeway. 

The  signature  to  the  money  transfer  was  a  very  singular 
one,  and  the  original  was  immediately  mailed  to  San  Francisco, 
the  duplicate  being  reserved  for  the  Reno  office  files. 

Three  days  elapsed,  and  Pitcher,  who  was  watching  intently 
the  stock  wire,  detected  a  telegram  to  the  Gold  Hill  office,  asking- 
why  remittance  had  not  been  forwarded  for  the  Special  Agne 
transfer. 

The  response  from  Mr.  Chubbuck  came  quickly  denying  any 
knowledge  of  such  a  transfer. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


141 


142 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


Messages  were  exchanged  with  lightning  rapidity  between 
the  San  Francisco  office  and  Gold  Hill,  and  to  the  inquiry  from 
San  Francisco,  as  to  what  his  No.  36  of  July  23rd  was,  there 
could  not  be  found  any  message  with  that  number,  and  no  expla- 


W.  J.  LLOYD 


nation  could  be  given  about  it,  other  than  the  young  operator's 
carelessness  in  not  verifying  the  number. 

All  this  time  Pitcher  kept  a  close  watch  on  what  was  stirring 
on  the  wire,  and  he  was  laughing  with  fiendish  glee  to  think  how 
cleverly  he  had  outwitted  the  telegraph  company,  putting  to 
naught  their  best  laid  plans  for  secrecy  in  their  money  transfer 
system. 

He   had   no   compunctions    of   conscience,   and    could   only 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  143 

rejoice  at  the  glorious  success  of  his  efforts,  for  it  was  he  who 
had  written  the  name  of  the  fictitious  John  Agne,  and  it  was 
he  who  had  laid  the  plot,  and  it  was  he  who  had  $500  which  did 
not  belong  to  him. 

A  day  later  a  quiet  looking  man  arrived  on  the  train  from 
San  Francisco  and  entered  the  office.  Pitcher  instantly  knew 
his  visitor  was  a  detective,  but  notwithstanding  his  nonchalance 
and  sang  froid,  the  sleuth  peered  beneath  the  surface  and  was 
satisfied  that  here  was  the  crook,  but  how  was  he  going  to  prove 
it?  Ah,  there  was  the  rub.  There  was  no  way  to  fasten  the 
crime  on  to  Pitcher  unless  he  confessed  t6  it,  and,  of  course, 
there  was  no  likelihood  of  that. 

Officials  from  the  San  Francisco  office  hounded  Reno  and 
Gold  Hill  for  the  next  two  weeks,  but  nothing  could  be  learned. 
It  was  acknowledged  that  the  carelessness  regarding  the  miss- 
ing number  "36"  left  a  loop-hole  and  it  was  finally  decided  to 
make  each  office — Gold  Hill  and  Reno — pay  one-half  of  the 
amount  of  the  transfer,  but  this  Pitcher  indignantly  refused  to 
do,  betaking  himself  to  the  highest  plane  of  outraged  honesty, 
and  he  was  accordingly  discharged. 

Samuel  Pitcher  still  lives,  but  he  is  a  wanderer  and  an  out- 
cast on  the  face  of  the  earth.  He  avoids  the  home  of  his  youth 
and  the  acquaintances  of  later  life.  •  His  misdeeds  have  found 
him  out  and  he  is  reaping  the  whirlwind. 


CANDELARIA 

THE  alkaU  gleamed  in  the  mid-day  sun  exasperating  alike 
to  man  and  beast,  for,  far  off  to  the  east,  eighty  miles  away, 
also  gleamed  the  everlasting  snow  of  the  Tiobabe  moun- 
tains. 

New  diggings  had  been  discovered  at  Candelaria,  Esmer- 
alda county,  Nevada,  and  a  hegira  was  taking  place  from  the 
waning  mining  camps  in  that  part  of  the  state. 

Such  bustle,  such  hurrying  and  crowding  to  get  there,  to  be 
the  first  on  the  ground,  and  what  for? 

Many  did  not  know  that  water  was  selling  for  five  cents 
a  gallon,  and  if  reminded  of  the  fact,  would  jokingly  declare 
that  they  never  drank  water,  anyway. 


144  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

The  telegraph  company,  bent  on  business,  followed  in  the 
wake  of  this  movement,  and  lacking  poles  stretched  their  wires 
for  miles  upon  the  hot,  dry  sands  of  this  uninviting  desert. 

There  was  no  formality  about  opening  of  the  Candelaria 
telegraph  office,  and  after  purchasing  lOO  gallons  of  water  from 
a  Mexican  who  hauled  the  costly  treasure  15  miles,  Johnnie 
Bell,  the  operator,  proceeded  to  set  up  his  batteries  and  install 
his  instruments. 

"But  what  about  a  ground  wire?"  came  from  Royal  Heath, 
who  had  served  with  Frank  Bell  in  the  White  Pine  country. 

"That's  so,"  replied  Bell,  "let's  go  and  locate  one." 

But  this  was  much  easier  said  than  done,  for  in  this  lava 
bed  there  was  no  ground  to  be  reached.  The  whole  country  was 
in  a  vast  mineral  belt  and  no  ground  could  be  effected. 

Here  was  a  dilemma,  sure  enough,  and  it  was  a  matter  that 
interested  every  inhabitant  of  the  new  diggings. 

What  could  be  done?  Some  "ham,"  who  had  graduated  at 
the  Janesville  college,  suggested  that  the  ground  wire  be  at- 
tached to  a  sage  brush  tree  and  he  was  given  five  hours  to  leave 
town. 

John  Bell  knew  that  the  Mount  Diablo  had  sunk  a  shaft 
1,700  feet,  before  the  claim  had  been  abandoned,  and  getting  the 
use  of  a  windlass  and  an  experienced  miner,  essayed  the  descent 
in  hopes  of  locating  a  spot  suitable  for  this  purpose. 

After  ten  hours  of  perilous  search,  he  returned,  declaring 
the  whole  interior  of  the  mine  was  dry  as  a  bone. 

Tom  Nixon,  afterward  United  States  Senator  from  Nevada, 
and  who  was  working  at  Luning,  a  little  station  some  forty 
miles  away,  dropped  in  on  this  evening  and  thought  he  could 
assist  in  obtaining  the  desired  ground,  and  by  his  aid,  it  was  dis- 
covered that  down  on  the  2,400-foot  level  of  the  Northern  Belle, 
there  was  a  place  where  the  rocks  were  cool. 

This  was  sufficient  hint  and  obtaining  a  piece  of  iron  two 
feet  long,  a  drill  was  made  in  the  rock,  and  the  iron  wedge  in- 
serted, the  ground  wire  being  attached  to  the  iron  and  soldered. 
This  was  a  distance  of  more  than  two  miles  from  the  telegraph 
•office. 

It  was  a  very  indifferent  ground  and  never  worked  well. 

Tom  Nixon's  salary  at  Luning  was  $60  per  month  at  this 
time,  but  he  died  a  millionaire,  much  respected  by  all  who  knew 
him. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


145 


''^k  \  r  ^^-^        y^ 


r»?aa 


C^-^«>.v<r      '^T^ 


b^^-^ 


^-*-^^,  <c^  -or^jQ^  ,5^.cu.^  "^ 


No.  I 


io 


146  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

Water  was  a  costly  commodity  in  this  barren  spot,  and  cost 
more  than  rent,  Hght,  fuel  and  messengers'  salaries.  The  hot, 
dry  atmosphere  seemed  to  lick  up  the  water  over  night,  and  as 
lOO  cells  of  battery  had  to  be  maintained,  it  can  readily  be  com- 
puted what  the  expense  for  battery  maintenance  was,  at  five 
cents  a  gallon  for  water. 

Candelaria  had  its  day,  but  it  is  a  town  of  the  past,  and 
there  is  hardly  a  stone  left  to  tell  the  story  of  its  once  gay 
doings. 

Johnnie  Bell  secured  the  greatest  prize  of  the  camp  when 
he  married  the  belle  of  Candelaria,  who  is  still  his  happy  help- 
meet, smoothing  down  the  rough  sides  of  life. 


THE  SEVEN  MOUNDS 

MANY  solicitous  inquiries  have  been  made  in  the  last  decade 
relative  to  the  whereabouts,  or  probable  fate,  of  Aaron  B. 
Hilliker,  telegraph  operator,  minstrel  and  story  writer. 

Aaron  Burr  Hilliker  was  known  from  New  York  to  San 
Francisco  prior  to  the  War  of  the  RebeUion.  His  was  an  ad- 
venturous nature,  and  he  assisted  materially  in  making  the  path 
to  the  great  West  easier  for  the  next  comer.  He  possessed  a 
gentle  spirit  and  many  lovable  traits,  which  endeared  him  to  all 
his  friends,  who  were  legion.  The  following  weird  story,  which 
came  to  the  knowledge  of  the  writer  through  the  late  Ed  C. 
Keeler,  may  establish  beyond  question  the  passing  of  Aaron  B. 
Hilliker,  and  his  last  days  on  earth. 

A  party  of  thirteen  left  Boston  in  May,  1888,  bound  for  the 
West.  It  consisted  of  John  B.  Lansing,  his  wife  and  her  sister, 
and  eight  young  fellows  about  town,  well-to-do  and  of  an  ad- 
venturous turn  of  mind,  the  party  being  under  the  guidance  of 
two  middle-aged  prospectors.  These  two  latter  personages  had 
come  to  Boston  to  organize  a  party  for  the  purpose  of  pros- 
pecting and  developing  some  alleged  wonderful  gold  mines  in 
Southern  Nevada  and  California. 

The  members  of  this  Httle  band  were  in  high  spirits  as  they 
pursued  their  journey  to  the  far  West;  the  grandeur  of  the 
scenery  and  the  vastness  of  the  country  filling  all  with  awe  and 
admiration. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  147 

Many  stops  were  made  en  route,  mostly  in  Colorado,  Wyom- 
ing and  Utah.  At  one  of  the  stations  in  Colorado  Mr.  Lansing 
and  his  wife  formed  the  acquaintance  of  a  telegraph  operator. 
He  had  passed  the  middle  age,  but  was  hale  and  hearty.  He 
appeared  to  be  thoroughly  conversant  with  the  country,  and  as 
the  party  numbered  the  unlucky  thirteen,  the  operator  was 
asked  to  join  the  adventurers,  which  he  did.  It  is  said  that  his 
singing  "The  Old  Oaken  Bucket,"  which  was  rendered  in  a  most 
artistic  manner,  was  one  of  the  leading  attractions  that  caused 
the  telegraph  operator  to  be  offered  a  place  with  the  party. 

It  was  some  time  in  July,  1888,  that  a  caravan  composed  of 
seven  wagons,  drawn  by  a  dozen  horses  and  a  yoke  of  oxen, 
made  its  departure  from  Reno,  Nev.,  bound  South.  No  address 
was  left  with  any  of  the  merchants  who  fitted  out  the  party,  and 
it  appeared  as  if  that  were  to  be  a  secret.  There  were  two  ladies 
in  the  party,  properly  dressed  for  the  occasion.  The  ox  team 
was  driven  by  a  man  of  fifty-five  or  thereabouts,  who  seemed 
to  be  the  life  of  the  party.  He  was  continually  playing  jokes 
upon  his  comrades,  and  just  before  leaving,  he,  with  three  other 
good  voices,  sang  "The  Old  Oaken  Bucket,*'  which  received  a 
rousing  encore. 

As  cash  was  paid  for  everything  they  obtained,  the  episode 
of  their  coming  and  going  passed  out  of  the  minds  of  most  every- 
one, excepting  the  several  persons  that  helped  to  outfit  the  party. 

The  caravan  went  due  South  through  Carson  and  Jack's 
Valley,  where  they  entered  a  sterile  country,  once  known  on  the 
map  as  the  "Great  American  Desert." 

It  was  in  June,  1907,  that  Eugene  Burdick,  mining  engineer, 
civil  engineer  and  prospector,  residing  in  Tuolumne  County,  Cal- 
ifornia, received  a  letter  from  Boston,  which  read  as  follows : 

"I  am  seeking  information  regarding  a  party  that  left  Bos- 
ton in  May,  1888,  bound  for  Southern  Nevada  and  California. 
I  am  willing  to  pay  $5,000  for  authentic  information  which  will 
enable  me  to  establish  beyond  any  doubt  the  fate  of  these  people. 
There  were  thirteen  persons,  two  women  and  eleven  men.  The 
leader  of  the  party  was  John  B.  Lansing,  and  it  is  of  his  fate 
that  I  desire  to  know,  because  a  large  estate  is  in  litigation.  The 
last  heard  from  Lansing  was  from  Reno,  Nev.,  in  July,  1888." 

Burdick  was  well  acquainted  with  all  the  country  leading 
from  Reno  to  the  South,  and  readily  accepted  the  mission.  His 
visit  to  Reno  elicited  the  facts  related  above,  and  taking  up  the 


148  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

clue,  Burdick  began  his  laborious  task  of  finding  the  lost  cara- 
van. Carefully  he  followed  them  across  mountains  and  desert, 
through  what  looked  like  inaccessible  canyons,  but  not  one  item 
of  intelligence  could  he  learn  of  the  missing  ones. 

It  was  on  the  evening  of  the  seventh  day  after  leaving  Reno 
that  Eugene  Burdick  stopped  for  the  night  at  the  wickiup  of 
Shoshone  Joe,  on  the  border  of. Death  Valley.  This  Indian  had 
lived  in  and  around  the  neighborhood  with  his  wife,  Sally,  for 
more  than  twenty-five  years,  and  was  a  character  well  known  to 
emigrants  and  prospectors. 

A  present  of  9.  few  trinkets  to  the  Indian  made  him  quite 
friendly.  Burdick  inquired  if  they  had  ever  seen  a  caravan  of 
seven  wagons  passing  that  way  long  ago.  Shoshone  Joe,  with 
many.  "Ugh"!  **Ugh's" !  picked  up  §even  twigs,  which  he  placed 
in  the  ground  in  a  straight  fine  a.  few  inches  apart,  and  then  tak- 
ing a  stick,  with  one  sweep  knocked  them  all  down,  dramatically 
exclaiming,  "All  gone !" 

Burdick  inferred  from  this  that  the  Indian  knew  something 
which  might  assist  him  in  finding  the  lost  ones.  He  gathered 
that  the  Indian  had  seen  the  party,  and  had  furnished  them  with 
fresh,  water  prior  to  their  crossing  the  Valley.  A  blinding  sand- 
storm occurred  a  few  hours  later,  and  the  caravan  lost  its  way 
going  south  of  the  regular  trail.  Shoshone  Joe  said  that  once 
when  he  was  down  the  Valley  he  could  see  seven  little  hills  at  a 
distance  of  ten  miles,  but  Indian-like,  he  was  afraid  of  the  "Deb- 
bil,"  and  he  had  never  investigated. 

This  information  interested  Burdick  very  much,  and  by 
making  a  few  more  presents  he  induced  the  Indian  next  morning 
to  come  with  him  and  locate  the  seven  hills  he  had  told  about. 

Taking  a  two  days'  supply  of  water  and  a  pick  and  shovel, 
Burdick,  with  his  companion,  started  across  the  Valley  in  the 
direction  indicated  by  Shoshone  Joe.  The  route  was  arduous, 
the  sand  being  so  deep  and  fine  not,  more  than  a  mile  and  a  half 
an  hour  could  be  traveled. 

Five  miles  of  this  wearisome  journey  had  been  traversed, 
when  Burdick  located,  by  means  of  his  spyglass,  the  seven 
mounds  described  by  the  Indian,  at  a  distance  of  probably  ten 
miles,  away  to  the  south,  and  this  added  fresh  impetus  to  his 
efforts. 

Six  hours  later  the  twain  arrived  at  the  seven  mounds.  A 
vigorous  blow  with  the  pick-axe  felled  one  of  the  mounds,  and 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


149 


l^Ae  at  tt^l) 


No.  2 


150  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

two  skeletons  fell  out  into  the  deep  sand.  The  relics  were  those 
of  a  wagon  which  was  ready  to  crumble  to  pieces,  the  tires  on 
the  wheels  being  worn  as  fine  as  ribbons.  This  wagon  had  been 
drawn  by  an  ox  team,  the  horns  and  bones  of  which  were  half 
covered  by  the  desert  sand. 

Twenty  feet  further  along  was  another  similar  mound.  It 
took  but  a  little  shake  to  bring  the  second  wagon  to  the  ground, 
and  two  more  skeletons  were  exposed  to  view.  An  object  that 
proved  to  be  a  gold  watch  and  chain  fell  out  into  the  sand,  but 
was  speedily  found  by  the  watchful  Burdick.  He  pried  open  the 
case  of  the  watch,  and  on  the  inside  read  the  following  in- 
scription: 

"To  John  B.  Lansing.     From  his  wife,  Dec.  25,  1886." 

"This  is  all  the  proof  I  want,"  said  Burdick,  and  bidding 
good-bye  to  the  .gruesome  spectacle,  he  beat  a  hasty  retreat. 
The  Boston  people  were  satisfied  with  Burdick's  story,  and  the 
evidence  that  he  produced,  and  he  received  the  reward. 

The  shifting,  treacherous  sands  now  completely  cover  the 
seven  little  mounds,  and  all  that  is  mortal  of  Aaron  Burr  Hil- 
licker,  telegraph  operator,  philosopher,  bohemian,  gentleman. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  151 


EARTHQUAKES  TO  ORDER 

By  John  F.  Ledwidge 


ALONG  in  the  eighties  and  particularly  after  our  little  ruc- 
tion with  the  W.  U.  in  1883,  a  spirit  of  unrest  seemed  to 
seize  many  pi  the  boys  in  the  East,  who,  under  ordinary 
circumstances,  would  have  been  content  to  remain  at  their  orig- 
inal places  of  employment  for  the  rest  of  their  natural  lives. 
As  a  result  of  this  "wanderlust"  Ogden,  which  was  then  the 
regular  relay  office  on  the  Central  route  between  Omaha  and 
San  Francisco,  was  blessed  with  the  presence  of  a  great  many 
of  these  "tenderfeet"  for  a  period  of  time  varying  from  one  to 
six  months ;  and  when  1  use  the  word  ''tenderfeet"  it  is  em- 
ployed not  as  a  term  of  opprobrium  but  as  a  means  of  distin- 
guishing the  old-timers  from  the  newcomers. 

Ed.  Keeler,  of  course,  had  been  in  Ogden  off  and  on  for  so 
long  that  there  was  no  question  about  his  right  to  the  title  of 
"old-timer"  and  Billy  Dermody  had  been  out  from  Cincinnati 
just  about  long  enough  for  the  moss  to  wear  off  his  back.  In 
fact,  as  later  events  demonstrated,  Billy  made  a  mighty  good 
"native,"  and  if  he  had  been  there  in  the  time  of  Brigham 
Young,  the  chances  are  that  he  would  have  been  selected  as 
one  of  the  twelve  apostles  in  the  Mormon  Church.  Walter 
Patterson  was  there,  too,  and  so  was  Phil  Kearney  and  Alex 
Bruckman  and  lots  more  of  the  old  gang. 

For  years,  the  W.  U.  had  occupied  the  second  floor  of  the 
Dooly  Block  as  an  operating  and  battery  room,  but  shortly 
before  the  time  referred  to  in  this  story,  the  company  had 
moved  us  to  the  third  floor  and  the  second  floor  remained 
unoccupied  for  a  long  time  thereafter.  I  make  mention  of  this 
fact  because  it  has  bearing  on  the  incident  that  I  am  about  to 
relate. 

Among  those  who  came  to  our  midst  from  the  East  (and  I 
cannot  now  recall  just  where  he  hailed  from)  was  Jerry  Glea- 
son,  and  a  finer  fellow  or  a  better  operator  it  would  be  hard  to 
find ;  but  he  was  an  absolute  novice  as  to  western  ways  and 
people,  and  as  a  matter  of  course  was  legitimate  prey  for  Ed 
Keeler.  Jerry  had  never  experienced  an  earthquake,  and,  with 
the  rest  of  our  visitors,  could  not  separate  Utah  from  the  Pacific 


152  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

Coast,  but  took  it  for  granted  that  as  soon  as  he  reached  Ogden, 
he  was  in  the  quake  zone  and  busied  himself  with  questioning 
the  force  about  earthquakes  until  at  last  he  got  around  to  Keeler. 
Can  you  imagine  it? 

At  all  events,  when  we  came  on  duty  one  night,  the  word 
was  passed  around  that  an  earthquake  was  due  about  midnight, 
and  to  make  the  conditions  more  realistic,  it  had  been  a  day 
such  as  one  now  and  then  encounters  in  the  inter-mountain  re- 
gion—hazy, oppressive  and  the  air  charged  with  electricity  to 
such  an  extent  that  it  would  almost  make  the  ends  of  your 
fingers  tingle  in  case  you  happened  to  touch  a  good  conductor. 
Jerry  was  filled  with  earthquake  stories  at  every  opportunity 
between  the  time  he  came  on  duty  (if  my  memory  serves  me 
right,  he  was  working  the  Omaha  duplex  that  night)  and  the 
time  the  temblor  was  due  to  arrive,  and  rest  assured  that  little 
Eddie  didn't  give  Jerry  a  single  chance  to  forget  what  was 
coming. 

As  midnight  approached,  a  rumbling  sound  was  heard, 
evidently  emanating  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth.  This  was 
produced  by  rolling  from  one  end  to  the  other  on  the  floor  of 
the  unoccupied  room  under  us  a  heavy  iron  roller,  weighing  in 
the  neighborhood  of  fifty  pounds.  It  surely  did  make  some 
rumble,  and  right  from  the  first  Jerry  sat  up  and  took  notice. 
I  may  be  mistaken,  but  I  think  that  Billy  Dermody  was  the  en- 
gineer on  the  roller.  Another  one  of  the  boys  was  delegated  to 
now  and  then  smash  the  receiving  counter  at  the  east  end  of 
the  office  with  a  big  club  which  had  been  secured  for  the  pur- 
pose, and  to  make  other  noises  conveying  the  impression  of 
grinding  and  crushing  when  the  quake  reached  its  climax. 
There  were  many  other  accessories,  but  after  the  lapse  of  time 
I  am  unable  to  recall  them.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  the  work  was 
well  done,  so  well  done  that  we  were  obliged  to  grab  Jerry  and 
hold  onto  him  in  order  to  prevent  him  from  jumping  from  one 
of  the  third  story  windows  on  the  north  side  of  the  office. 

I  have  often  wondered  what  has  become  of  Jerry,  and  I 
should  Hke  to  meet  him  again  and  have  him  tell  me  what  his 
feelings  were  during  the  ordeal  through  which  he  was  com- 
pelled to  pass.  I  have  several  times  of  late  years  asked  Ed 
Keeler  what  his  feelings  were  while  the  performance  was  going 
on,  but  he  persistently  refuses  to  answer — he  simply  laughs ! 


T 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  153 

SOME  CLASS 

By  Edward  F.  Wach 

HE   North  American   Indian  has   a   favorite   axiom,  which 
runs  like  this : 

"Fool   me   once,    shame    on   you. 
Fool   me   twice,   shame    on   me." 


These  aborigines  are  very  vain,  the  buck  ofttimes  vieing 
with  his  spouse  in  the  gay  decoration  of  head  gear  and  face  paint. 

They  are  a  prodigal  lot  and  money  burns  a  hole  in  their 
pockets,  so  there  is  but  Httle  attention  paid  to  accumulation. 

I  spent  a  few  years  of  my  younger  days  with  the  railroad 
companies  in  Montana,  where  the  noble  red  man  would  bargain 
oft  his  homestead  often  for  a  mess  of  pottage. 

A  smart  real  estate  man  started  the  ball  rolHng  one  day 
when  he  gave  a  redskin  a  real  Studebaker  buggy  and  harness  in 
part  payment  for  i6o  acres  of  land. 

The  happy  Indian  hitched  his  best  horse  to  the  buggy  and 
piled  in  all  his  family,  each  clad  in  a  picturesque  blue  or  red 
blanket. 

They  naturally  attracted  much  attention  and  envy  among 
their  brother  redskins,  all  of  whom  determined  to  have  a  buggy 
of  their  own,  unmindful  of  the  price. 

And  so  a  run  was  made  on  the  buggy  department  of  the 
agricultural  implement  concern  at  Havre,  and  every  Indian  who 
could  became  the  possessor  of  a  buggy  and  harness. 

I  can  still  see,  in  my  fancy,  the  procession  of  Indians,  single 
file  as  usual,  as  they  passed  our  little  depot  twice  a  day,  en  route 
to  and  from  their  wickiups. 

It  occurred  that  one  old  Indian,  who  was  dilatory  in  selling 
a  portion  of  his  homestead,  arrived  in  town  to  find  that  all  the 
buggies  had  been  bought  up,  and  there  was  not  one  left  for 
him  to  invest  in. 

"Big  Smudge"  was  deeply  chagrined.  He  had  the  cash  and 
he  knew  if  he  did  not  make  a  purchase  of  a  coveted  buggy  the 
money  would  be  gone  ere  another  installment  would  reach 
Havre. 

As  he  was  making  his  way  up  the  street  he  espied  an  under- 
taker's vehicle,  glass-cased  and  well  upholstered. 

He  quickly  made  up  his  mind  that  he  had  found  what  his 


154 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


S%&^i 


r^F^ 


V 


^^^•^ 


f. 


■^   V 


;^. 


^ 


^<97n'T\<^ 


^X 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


155 


heart  desired,  and  here  was  something  which  would  throw  his 
entire  tribe  into  the  background. 

Money  is  no  object  when  an  Indian  finds  what  he  wants,  and 
$50  cuts  no  figure  in  a  horse  trade  with  them.  In  a  few  minutes 
the  deal  was  made  and  "Big  Smudge"  piled  his  squaw  and  pap- 
pooses,  with  their  dogs,  inside  of  the  hearse,  slammed  the  door. 


B.  S.  JONES 


then  took  his  seat  in  front,  wrapped  up  in  his  blanket. 

It  was  a  comical  sight  and  elicited  a  merry  laugh  from  all 
who  witnessed  the  strange  spectacle. 

This  story  continues  to  be  told  around  the  depot  fireside  in 
the  Havre  station,  although  the  hearse,  which  was  driven  home 
so  happily  by  "Big  Smudge,"  later  on  conducted  him  to  his  own 
last  happy  hunting  grounds. 


HANDLING  THE  FORCE 

By  Thomas  M.  Ragen 


HANDLING  the  force  in  a  large  telegraph  office  like  New 
York  Western  Union  requires  a  strong  hand,  and  few  men 
are  gifted  by  Nature  with  the  proper  temperament  to  han- 
dle such  a  large  force. 

In  John   Morison,   familiarly  known  the   country  over  as 


156 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


"Jack,"  we  find  a  man  with  the  wonderful  temperament  that 
just  fills  the  requirements  of  this  position.  As  a  telegraph  oper- 
ator he  has  always  been  considered  one  of  the  best  in  the  land, 
so  that  his  judgment  of  a  telegrapher's  ability  is  good. 

Then  again,  Nature  in  bestowing  on  him  such  a  lovable 
disposition,  has  given  him  that  great  power  of  persuasion  where- 
in kindness  conquers.  That  magnetic  smile  is  ever  in  evidence, 
and  everybody  who  has  any  dealings  with  him  knows  that  be- 
hind that  smile  is  a  manly  man,  ever  handing  out  a  square  deal. 


THOMAS  M.  RAUEN 


When  the  elements  tear  loose,  whether  it  be  on  the  Atlantic 
or  Pacific  coast,  or  out  on  the  broad  Plains  of  the  great  West, 
New  York  very  often  becomes  the  receptacle  of  the  country's 
business,  because  New  York,  as  the  head  of  the  vast  wire  sys- 
tem, is  usually  in  a  position  to  dispose  of  it.  Then  it  is  often 
necessary  to  call  on  the  large  force  of  New  York  office  to  do 
some  extra  duty,  and  it  is  here  that  we  find  the  great  Field 
Marshal,  Jack  Morison,  at  his  best.  It  is  then  that  the  mag- 
netic smile  gathers  together  that  mighty  force,  and  every  oper- 
ator is  placed  where  he  best  belongs,  because  the  Chief  of  Force 
knows  everyone's  ability. 

At  5  :30  p.  m.  comes  that  great  Roman,  Clay  Danforth,  fa- 
miliarly knoAvn  as  "Dan,"  who  handles  the  night  force.  Big  in 
stature  and  broad  in  his  deaHngs,  few  men  are  more  skilled  in 
the  handHng  of  a  large  force.  As  the  nerve  center  of  the  coun- 
try, New  York  is  very  sensitive  from  a  telegraph  standpoint, 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


157 


especially  as  regards  press  matter.  Should  anything  big  "break," 
calls  for  men  would  immediately  begin  to  pour  in  from  the  many 
newspapers  and  news  bureaus  of  the  city. 

It  is  here  the  masterly  hand  of  Danforth  becomes  manifest. 
From  out  of  the  big  night  force  he  will  pick  the  right  men  and 


B.  E.  SUNNY 


hurry  them  to  their  destination.  Out  of  the  several  hundred 
telegraphers  he  will  pick  the  men  who  understand  press  work. 
All  the  while  that  he  is  supplying  the  newspapers  and  press 
bureaus  with  men  that  he  usually  takes  off  fast  commercial 
wires,  he  adroitly  shifts  his  force  so  that  all  wires  are  properly 
covered. 

Two  wonderful  strategists  in  this  great  industrial  army. 


158 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


1886 


C<'C*<''^.<=t>*-^^VvaJ>-^  O 


£ 


'it.  t  S^<^o^ 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  159 


SECTION  VI 


STORIES  OF  THE  FAR  OFF  PACIFIC 
NORTHWEST 


By  Jeff  W.  Hayes 


A  MOTHER'S  LOVE 


AS  the  delighted  traveler  journeying  southward  over  the 
Shasta  route  is  drinking  in  the  beautiful  panorama  spread 
before  him  at  each  succeeding  mile-post,  he  is  ready  to 
exclaim  that  God  is  good  even  to  sinners. 

The  unsurpassable  loveliness  of  the  Willamette  valley,  the 
Calapooie  range  and  the  incomparable  Rogue  river  valley  have 
separate  and  distinct  attractions  for  the  tourist. 

But  the  Southern  Pacific,  on  its  road,  has  a  picture  more 
beautiful  to  the  sense  than  all  of  its  diversified  scenery.  It  is  a 
scene  known  to  but  few  of  the  officials  and  not  advertised  on  its 
time  tables,  yet  once  seen  is  never  to  be  forgotten. 

I  had  the  pleasure  recently  of  witnessing  this  picture  as  1 
came  south  on  the  Roseburg  express  with  Conductor  Elhaman 
Veatch. 

It  was  a  simple  picture,  and  the  only  actors  were  a  white- 
haired  old  gentleman,  a  dear  little  old  lady  and  the  stalwart 
Elhaman. 

Love  lighted  up  the  faces  of  the  elderly  couple  as  they  em- 
braced their  baby  boy,  now  44  years  old.  It  would  be  but  a 
commonplace,  everyday  scene,  were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  this 
same  little  mother  has  for  the  last  38  years  never  missed  a  day 
coming  to  the  train  to  see  her  sons  as  they  came  through. 

"Aunt  Jane,"  as  this  lady  is  known  far  and  near  in  her  coun- 
ty, began  these  pilgrimages  when  her  oldest  boy,  Sam,  was  19 
years  old.  This  was  away  back  in  1875,  and  rain,  snow  or  sun- 
shine, the  faithful  mother  was  on  hand  as  her  boy  came  along 
on  his  train.  She  brought  along  with  her  all  the  goodies  which 
a  loving  mother  could  think  of  to  please  her  boys,  and  these  same 
young  men  watched  for  her  with  equally  keen  interest. 

"Aunt  Jane"  lived  for  several  years   two  miles   from  the 


160 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


depot,  but  even  that  distance  did  not  deter  her  daily  visits,  which 
often  took  her  long  into  the  night. 

It  is  estimated  that  she  has  walked  over  30,000  miles,  or 
more  than  clear  around  the  earth  at  its  widest  part,  and  with  a 
margin  to  go  on,  in  making  these  daily  trips. 

"I'm  83  years  old  and  my  husband  is  85.  I  crossed  the  plains 
in  1852,"  said  the  old  lady  to  me.     "I  have  never  looked  at  my 


GEO.  M.  MYERS 


visits  to  the  train  to  be  anything  but  a  great  pleasure.  I  love 
to  see  my  boys,  and  what  mother  would  not  travel  two  miles 
and  back  to  greet  such  fine  boys  as  I  have,"  and  she  smiled 
proudly. 

Is  it  a  wonder,  then,  that  even  the  scenery  on  the  Shasta 
grows  blase  when  one  witnesses  a  picture  of  such  motherly  love 
and  devotion?  Those  boys  will  never  wander  far  from  the 
paths  of  rectitude. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  161 

ENTERPRISE  IN  EMERGENCY 

IT  was  in  the  year  1902  that  Col.  R.  C.  Clowry,  vice  president 
and  general  superintendent  for  the  Western  Union  Telegraph 
Company  at  Chicago,  accompanied  by  his  secretary,  Frank  J. 
Scherer,  and  two  young  lady  relatives,  made  a  trip  to  the  Pacific 
Coast,  coming  around  by  the  southern  line  and  intending  to 
return  over  the  O.  W.  R.  &  N.,  Oregon  Short  Line  and  Union 
Pacific. 

These  peregrinations  occurred  about  once  a  year  and  were 
hailed  with  much  expectancy  by  superintendent,  manager  and 
chief  operator  of  his  company,  for  there  was  generally  some- 
thing doing  on  these  occasions. 

Arriving  at  San  Francisco,  Mr.  Frank  Jaynes,  superintend- 
ent, detailed  Lewis  McKissick  to  accompany  the  Colonel  and 
party  to  Portland  and  thence  over  the  O.  W.  R.  &  N.  and  Short 
Line  to  Ogden. 

Mr.  McKissick  dressed  for  the  occasion  in  a  full  dress  suit, 
the  Colonel  and  his  secretary  being  likewise  faultlessly  attired. 

Upon  reaching  Portland  the  party  was  greeted  by  Mr.  J.  P. 
O'Brien,  general  manager  for  the  O.  W.  R.  &  N.,  who  intended 
taking  the  visitors  over  the  road  in  his  private  car,  but  learning 
that  the  car  "Electric,"  Colonel  dowry's  private  car,  was  con- 
veying the  party,  and  having  urgent  business  elsewhere,  detailed 
Edward  A.  Klippel,  assistant  general  manager  and  superintend- 
ent of  telegraph  of  the  system,  to  act  as  host  in  his  stead. 

Mr.  Klippel  did  not  have  time  to  don  his  claw-hammer,  but 
traveled  in  a  new  suit  of  blue  serge. 

Gaily  the  half  dozen  travelers  sped  on  their  way  along  the 
banks  of  the  mighty  Columbia  river,  whose  grandeur  is  unsur- 
passed in  this,  or  in  any  other  country. 

Rooster  Rock,  well  named,  was  viewed  with  much  interest ; 
Bridal  Veil  Falls,  Multnomah  Falls,  delighted  the  eyes  of  the 
visitors,  and  Cascade  Locks,  with  its  many  wonderments  and 
historic  legends,  came  in  for  its  share  of  attention. 

All  was  gaiety  and  harmony  aboard  the  "Electric,"  Messrs. 
Klippel  and  McKissick  regaling  the  little  party  with  stories 
appropriate  to  the  surroundings  and  country  they  were  travers- 
ing. 

Celilo  was  reached  and  passed,  dinner  was  being  served,  and 
the  hungry  six  sat  down  to  eat. 

11 


162  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

The  table  was  spread  with  delicious  viands,  and  jokes  were 
being  cracked  when,  suddenly  and  without  warning,  like  light- 
ning from  a  clear  sky,  came,  biff-bing-boom-fizz-bang.  The 
''Electric"  jumped  a  foot  into  the  air  and  stopped  with  a  very 
violent  jerk. 

Mr.  McKissick  was  thrown  over  the  dining  table,  the  mulli- 
gatawney  soup  trying  to  effect  an  escape  down  his  trouser  pock- 
ets after  frescoing  his  faultless  shirt  bosom. 

The  Colonel  was  beautifully  decorated  in  orange  and  white 
from  some  poached  eggs  he  had  ordered ;  Frank  Scherer  and 
Mr.  Klippel  remaining  unscathed,  but  badly  shaken  up.  The 
ladies  were  uninjured. 

A  general  shows  his  colors  in  action  and,  true  to  this  in- 
stinct, McKissick  seized  a  napkin,  wiped  the  soup  out  of  his 
eyes  and  hair,  and  led  the  way  out  of  the  car. 

It  was  immediately  ascertained  that  a  huge  boulder  had 
fallen  from  a  mountain  at  a  sharp  curve  in  the  road,  and,  the 
engineel  not  seeing  it  in  time,  ran  into  it  at  full  speed,  demolish- 
ing the  engine  and  killing  the  engineer,  poor  fellow.  Several  of 
the  cars  were  also  badly  wrecked  and  some  of  the  passengers 
were  more  or  less  injured. 

"Let's  get  the  news  of  the  accident  to  the  dispatcher,"  cried 
McKissick,  and  acting  under  the  instructions  of  Mr.  Klippel,  the 
athletic  McKissick  shinned  up  the  pole  in  approved  style,  where 
he  quickly  landed  on  a  cross  arm.  No.  2,  the  dispatcher's  wire, 
was  pointed  out  to  him  by  Superintendent  Klippel  and  connec- 
tion by  means  of  a  pocket  relay  was  soon  made. 

"No.  26  ran  into  an  obstruction  and  is  off  the  track  five  miles 
east  of  Celilo,"  telegraphed  the  superintendent. 

"Can't  stand  your  work.  No.  26  just  reported  leaving  Celilo 
ten  minutes  ago,  and  it  is  simply  impossible  to  get  such  news  so 
quickly,"  came  from  the  dispatcher. 

Mr.  Klippel  informed  the  dispatcher  as  to  his  identity,  which 
settled  the  matter  with  that  functionary,  and  the  wrecking  train 
was  ordered  out. 

So  effectively  was  the  work  done  that  an  hour  later  the 
party  were  again  speeding  eastward,  but  little  the  worse  for 
their  experience. 

"It  is  the  first  time  in  my  experience  that  I  ever  saw  a  man 
climb  a  pole  in  a  full  dress  suit,"  said  Colonel  Clowry,  "and  he 
did  it,  too,  like  a  veteran.'* 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH 


163 


^s^^^ 


Oregofb. 


.#U/C-^ 


¥tt-. 


"^-^     ^^r^ 


SjUVX^u-p 


:JiV 


164  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

Dress  suits,  however,  with  tgg  and  mulligatawney  adorn- 
ments, are  not  customary  in  poUte  society,  but  as  it  was  all  he 
had  with  him  McKissick  manfully  received  all  the  fun  poked  at 
him  very  gracefully. 

Mr.  Klippel  left  his  guests  at  Huntington,  believing  he  had 
furnished  them  with  an  experience  not  down  on  the  program  of 
entertainment,  and  one  which  they  would  not  soon  forget. 

Mr.  McKissick  continued  with  the  "Electric"  till  its  arrival 
at  Ogden,  where  he  took  the  westbound  train  for  San  Francisco, 
happy  in  the  thought  of  soon  being  able  to  shed  his  soiled  glad 
rags.  Mr.  E.  A.  KHppel  now  has  in  his  possession  a  pocket  relay 
presented  to  him  by  Colonel  Clowry,  beautifully  engraved,  to 
commemorate  their  lucky  escape  from  a  very  dangerous  pre- 
dicament. 


KITTIE  FINN 

PETER  FINN  was  a  quarryman  away  out  there  in  the  Far 
West. 

Finn  was  an  illiterate  fellow,  ignorant  and  supersti- 
tious, but  possessed  of  a  talent  all  his  own  along  the  line  of  his 
business. 

He  was  the  father  of  a  large  family  and  his  wife  was  a 
woman  possessing  much  better  breeding  and  culture  than  was 
allotted  her  spouse. 

Down  the  river,  30  miles  away,  was  the  stone  quarry  where 
Peter  Finn  shone  as  foreman  and  where  he  spent  ten  months 
every  year,  the  other  two  months  he  would  pass  with  his  family 
in  the  metropolis. 

The  quarrymen  paid  their  employes  every  three  months  and 
with  the  wages  so  received  Finn  would  lay  his  plans  for  the  com- 
ing two  weeks. 

"I  hev  before  me  $300,  and  now,  thin,  let's  see  what  we  will 
do  wid  it.  There's  $200  to  go  to  the  ould  woman,  $50  to  pay 
on  me  lots  and  $50  for  me  drunk." 

Thus  deliberately  did  Finn  plan  for  the  comfort  of  his  large 
family,  his  real  estate  speculation  and  finally  his  own  glorious 
spree.  When  a  friend  remonstrated  about  holding  out  so  much 
money   for  a  jamboree,  Finn  artlessly  exclaimed,   "Why,  yees 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


165 


OPAL  ELLIOTT 


GEO.  A.  CUP.TJS 


W.  F.  SCIIWANDT 


W.  O.  ASH  BY 


166  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

wudn't  want  to  deprive  a  poor  fellow  of  a  bit  o'  a  spree,  wud 
yees  ?" 

Oftimes  during  these  sprees,  Finn  would  come  home  in  the 
dead  of  the  night,  rouse  up  the  family,  young  and  old,  driving 
them  all  from  the  house,  the  mother  with  a  babe  at  her  breast, 
the  whole  brood  taking  shelter  at  some  hospitable  neighbor's. 

Next  day  Finn,  contrite  and  humble,  would  return  to  his 
labors  at  the  quarry,  only  to  re-enact  a  similar  proceeding  three 
months  later. 

And  time  went  on.  The  children  grew  up,  and,  under  their 
mother's  care,  grew  to  manhood  and  womanhood,  good  children. 
Finn  died  in  one  of  his  periodical  sprees,  demonstrating  that  the 
"ruHng  passion  is  strongest  in  death." 

When  Kittie  Finn  was  15  years  old  she  went  to  service  as  a 
domestic  in  the  home  of  John  Green,  the  manager  of  the  tele- 
graph office  of  the  metropolis. 

Kittie  had  acquired  a  common  school  education.  She  was 
quiet,  even  to  taciturnity,  and  her  immobile  face  indicated  no 
expression  of  what  was  going  on  in  her  mentality.  She  never 
smiled ;  indeed,  her  face  apparently  could  not  break  into  a  smile. 
No  matter  what  happened,  her  countenance  remained  as  im- 
movable as  a  Sphynx,  never  giving  out,  in  the  least,  any  evi- 
dence of  her  feelings.  But,  in  her  eyes  gleamed  a  light,  a 
strange,  lurid  light,  which  seemed  to  take  in  everything.  Such 
eyes  !  They  would  light  up  a  dark  room,  so  phosphorescent  were 
they  and  so  full  of  deep  feeling.  Kittie's  eyes  were  the  sole 
index  to  her  character,  and  a  careful  observer  could  read  a  high 
degree  of  intelligence,  coupled  with  an  ever-present  look  of  fear, 
probably  the  result  of  the  terror  engendered  by  her  father's  riot- 
ousness. 

The  Green  family  lived  some  five  miles  in  the  country,  and 
there  being  no  car  line,  a  horse  and  buggy  was  used  as  a  means 
of  transportation  to  and  from  the  office. 

"I  say,  Kittie,"  said  Green  one  morning  to  the  domestic,  "if 
you  will  rustle  up  my  horse  and  buggy  for  me  in  the  morning, 
I  will  teach  you  to  telegraph." 

That  same  strange  light  came  to  Kittie's  eyes,  but  the  face 
was  as  impassive  as  a  Sioux  Indian  at  the  stake. 

"You  will?"  she  asked. 

*T  will,"  was  the  reply. 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH  167 

The  following  morning  found  Rodney  champing  at  his  bit 
under  the  cherry  tree.  Half  an  hour  later  Green  was  ready  to 
be  off. 

A  learner's  set,  complete,  was  brought  home  and  presented 
to  the  girl  that  evening.  Instructions  how  to  make  the  alphabet 
were  given,  but  Green  did  not  think  very  seriously  about  the 
ability  or  application  of  the  young  domestic. 

As  the  sun  was  rising  over  the  mountain  peak,  John  Green 
was  awakened  by  the  cHck  of  a  telegraph  instrument. 

The  letter  "a"  was  heard,  at  first  rather  imperfectly,  but 
gradually,  through  persistent  effort,  growing  to  perfection. 
The  letter  "b"  was  next  and  was  treated  in  the  same  way. 

Then  followed  the  letters  **c,"  "d,"  ''e,"  up  to  the  end. 

Of  course,  there  was  the  usual  balk  on  the  letter  "j,"  but 
after  gracefully  accomplishing  that  letter,  more  confidence 
seemed  to  be  manifested,  and  when  the  final  rehearsal  came, 
Kittie  Finn  could  make  the  alphabet  on  the  Morse  key. 

Without  exhibiting  the  least  emotion,  the  girl  told  Green 
that  she  could  now  make  the  entire  alphabet,  and  she  was  as- 
sured that  she  was  getting  along  well. 

Each  day  Kittie  devoted  all  of  her  spare  time  to  the  study 
of  the  new  art,  for  she  realized  that  to  master  it  meant  a  change 
of  condition  to  her. 

Two  months  later,  the  Green  family  decided  to  give  up  their 
summer  home  and  move  into  the  metropolis,  Kittie  being  given 
employment  as  check  girl  in  the  telegraph  office. 

Four  months  later  the  girl  was  assigned  to  a  position  in  the 
leading  hotel  of  the  city  at  a  good  salary. 

Her  ambition  was  great  and  presently  she  took  up  the  study 
of  short-hand,  which  she  entered  into  with  the  same  untiring 
spirit  exhibited  in  acquiring  her  knowledge  of  the  telegraph. 
Six  months  later  the  title  of  "Public  Stenographer"  was  added 
to  Kittie's  growing  duties.  She  was  now  boarding  at  the  big 
hotel  and  her  clothes  were  of  a  texture  and  cut  to  harmonize 
with  her  surroundings.  But  never  did  that  countenance  show 
any  feeling  of  exultation  or  even  satisfaction,  but  the  look  out 
of  the  eyes  grew  more  and  more  intense. 

While  Kittie  lived  with  the  Green  family  in  the  country  she 
used  to  spend  much  time  in  the  fields,  listening  to  the  robins, 
meadow  larks  and  yellowhammers,  all  of  whom  she  could  imitate 
perfectly.     Indeed  this  accomplishment  was  wonderful, 


168  AUTOGRAPHfl  AND  MEMOIRS 

A  year  had  passed  by  and  Kittie  Finn  determined  to  study 
music.  She  believed  that  she  had  a  voice  which  could  be  brought 
out  and  something  made  of  it.  Accordingly,  she  placed  herself 
under  the  tuition  of  a  competent  teacher,  who  labored  hard  to 
assist  her. 

One  day,  a  great  prima  donna  came  to  the  metropolis  and 
Kittie  Finn  asked  John  Green  to  interview  the  great  singer  with 
a  view  to  have  her  listen  and  pass  on  the  merits  of  the  young 
()[)erat()r's  voice. 

The  i>rinia  donna  had  once  been  a  struggling  artist  herself 
.111(1  readily  granted  the  request,  listened  to  Kittie's  singing,  went 
into  ecstacies  over  her  voice  and  recommended  that  it  l)e  culti- 
v.'iU'd  by  the  best  of  foreign  masters. 

A  few  months  later,  Kittie  Finn  started  for  New  York, 
where  a  position  as  operator  in  a  broker's  ofTice  on  Wall  street 
awaited  her. 

Her  letters  of  introduction  procured  her  a  position  as  soloist 
in  one  of  the  big  churches  in  Gotham. 

A  year  later  u  position  in  a  leading  conservatory  of  music 
in  \\\v  South  was  ofTered  her,  but  was  declined,  for  Kittie  had 
(Icterniincd  lo  ^n  abroad  and  take  instructions  at  llic  fountain 
liead. 

\'\)V  four  years  the  young  lady  studied  hard  and  incessantly. 
Her  voice  was  of  a  volume  and  timbre  seldom  heard.  She  san^ 
just  like  a  bird  .ind  her  high  notes  were  as  clear  and  melodious 
as  a  ilnlc.  ll(r  I.kc  never  took  on  the  condition  of  her  mind, 
but  reniainc(|  iinniovabU',  iniiiiobiU',  Sphynx-like.  The  eyes, 
however,  scfincd  to  beam  with  added  inti'lli^eiice  and  soul  light. 

After  four  years  of  study  Kittie  made  her  debut  in  Paris, 
and  that  city  went  wild  over  her.  She  was  lauded  as  the  "great 
American  singer."  She  had  made  a  hit  in  the  French  metropo- 
lis surely.  London,  too,  received  her  with  open  arms  and  every- 
where (»i)  the  continent  she  was  courted  and  applauded. 

"Now,  then,  to  New  York,"  thought  Kittie,  and  a  few 
months  found  her  landed  again  on  American  soil. 

New  York  was  lukewarm;  the  name  "Kittie  Finn"  did  iky 
sound  good  to  the  eiTete  concert  i)atron  who  had  grown  blase 
with  too  much  of  a  good  thing.  Kittie  Innn  found  no  welcome 
in  her  own  country,  and  sore  and  disappointed  she  started  for  the 
Far  West  to  visit  her  relatives. 

Her  townspeople  had  heard  of  her  foreign  successes  and  a 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH 


169 


170 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


concert  was  tendered  the  singer.  Much  preparation  was  made 
for  the  affair,  but,  alas,  "a  prophet  is  not  without  honor,  save  in 
his  own  country,"  came  true  in  this  instance  again,   and  the 


FRANK  JAYNES 


concert  fell  flat,  a  great  disappointment  alike  to  both  singer  and 
friends. 

"Goodby,  I'm  off  for  Europe,"  uttered  Kittie  Finn  to  her 
friends,  and  the  next  Cunard  steamer  took  her  across  the  At- 
lantic. 

Things  had  changed,  new  faces  had  come,  new  voices  had 
been  heard  and  the  gay  and  fickle  Paris  had  lost  all  recollection 
of  Mademoiselle  Katherine  Finn.  And  so  it  was  in  London  and 
elsewhere  on  the  Continent. 

"Well,  thank  God,  I  can  still  telegraph,"  cried  Kittie,  and 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  171 

straightway  she  returned  to  New  York,  where  she  found  her  old 
position  on  Wall  street  ready  for  her. 

Terence  Crawford  was  a  plumber  by  trade.  He  had  seen 
Kittie  Finn  in  her  heyday  of  success,  prior  to  her  departure  for 
Europe.  He  had  loved  her  all  these  years,  but  had  considered 
his  a  hopeless  case. 

Acquaintance  was  renewed  between  the  twain,  which  devel- 
oped seven  months  later  into  an  engagement  and  now  Made- 
moiselle Katherine  Finn  is  the  wife  of  Terence  Crawford. 

This  latter  event  occurred  six  years  ago  and  in  a  recent  visit 
to  America's  greatest  city  John  Green  met  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Terence 
Crawford  and  their  little  family  of  three  children. 

The  above  story  is  true  to  life  and  will  indicate  that  pluck 
and  determination  will  win.  It  might  also  occur  to  our  gentle 
readers  that  Terence  Crawford,  plumber  and  gas-fitter,  was  even 
a  mightier  man  than  Signor  Caperillo,  the  great  ItaHan  maestro. 


AN  UNIQUE  ORDER 

DURING  the  construction  of  the  Northern  Pacific  Railroad 
in  1881  much  confusion  existed  and  grafting  was  the  order 
of  the  day,  and  it  would  seem  that  all  conditions  of  em- 
ployes were  more  or  less  involved  in  the  common  steal. 

The  outgoing  trains  from  Portland  would  carry  an  assort- 
ment of  employes  sent  East  to  replace  the  offending  servants 
discharged  for  the  usual  cause.  There  were  conductors,  en- 
gineers, brakemen,  operators,  agents  and  section  men  in  the 
deal,  and  the  superintendent,  H.  W.  Fairweather,  was  frantic. 
Henry  Thielsen,  then  assistant  chief  engineer  of  the  road, 
settled  the  complex  question  in  his  own  way  by  sending  the  fol- 
lowing terse  telegram,  which  for  brevity  and  point  has  never 
been  surpassed: 

"To  H.  W.  Fairweather, 
"Sand  Point,  Idaho: 
"Discharge  no  more  employes ;  reduce  stealing  to  a  mini- 
mum. 

"(Signed) :    H.  THIELSEN." 


172 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


AN  ANIMATED  SANDWICH 

JAY  O.  McCONIFF  was  an  operator  of  the  old  school.       He 
was  a  man  who. had  been  carefully  brought  up  and  always 
showed  his   good  breeding,   even   in  his   most   riotous   mo- 
ments. 

Young  McConifT  drifted  out  west  at  an  early  date  in  his 
career,  finding  ready  employment  at  every  ofifice  he  applied  to. 


D,  F.  INGOLD 


MRS.  D.  F.  INGOLD 
AND  DAUGHTER  GLADYS 


He  was  of  a  jovial  nature  and  a  lively  and  interesting 
companion,  made  a  beautiful  pen  copy,  and  could  telegraph 
with  the  best  of  them. 

A  friend  from  Canada  blew  into  the  town  one  day  and  this 
was  considered  sufficient  excuse  to  celebrate  by  getting  on  a 
glorious  jamboree. 

Several  days  passed  by,  and  late  one  evening,  "Jo-jo"  as 
the  boys  delighted  to  call  him  showed  up  at  the  manager's  of- 
fice. 

"I  don't  deserve  it,"  he  began,  "but  if  you  can  loan  me  *sx' 
one,"  which  means  in  telegraphic  parlance  $i,  "I'll  be  very  grate- 
ful to  you." 

"Here's  the  mazuma,"  replied  the  manager,  "and,  say  Jo- 
jo,  you  must  be  hungry,  too,  aren't  you?" 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


173 


174 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


"Yes  I  am  very  hun*gry,"  cried  the  repentant  Jo- jo. 

A  whispered  colloquy  ensued  between  the  manager  and  his 
chief,  and  the  latter  went  out,  returning  shortly  after  with  two 
large  slices  of  bread,  nicely  buttered  and  covered  with  mustard. 


THOS.  S.  BRICKHOUSE 


It  had  been  raining  in  Oregon  and  outside  in  a  Httle  gutter 
of  water  several  bull  frogs  and  toads  were  skylarking  in  the 
embryo  pond. 

Deftly  picking  up  two  small  frogs  and  a  toad  they  were 
quickly  inserted  between  the  two  slices  of  bread  and  brought  in 
to  be  given  to  Jo-jo. 

McConniff's  eyes  glistened  with  anticipation  for  the  sand- 
wich did  look  good  to  him. 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH 


175 


"How  can  I  ever  thank  you  for  your  kindness?  Here  you 
have  given  me  a  dollar  and  now  you  are  serving  me  with  a 
very  palatable  sandwich.     I  certainly  appreciate  this  courtesy." 

"Oh,  stow  all  that,  go  ahead  and  eat  your  sandwich,"  came 
from  the  manager. 

Jo-jo's  teeth  met  in  the  corner  of  the  sandwich  biting  off 
one  of  little  froggie's  hindlegs. 

A  general  commotion  immediately  ensued  inside  the  sand- 


ELMER  cox 

wich  and  toady  and  froggies  made  a  leap  for  their  lives,  spring- 
ing into  the  air  three  feet  to  the  ground. 

Jo-jo  witnessed  his  disappearing  sandwich  and  the  wrig- 
gling frogs  and  toads,  and  with  a  wild  whoop,  he  cried  out,  "I 
have  got  them  sure."  He  also  disappeared,  but  he  was  a  sober 
and  industrious  man  for  months  afterwards. 


LOYALTY 

HABITS  become  second  nature,  and  customs,  once  formed, 
become  difficult  to  eradicate. 

The   Highland  Scotchman  glories   in  his  kilts  and  is 
loath  to  part  with  them  for  more  modern  raiment. 

Some  eight  or  nine  years  ago,  a  bright  lad  applied  to  man- 


176  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

ager  P.  M.  Fulton,  of  the  Victoria,  B.  C,  office  for  a  position 
as  messenger.  The  boy  was  dressed  in  the  full  regalia  of  a 
Highland  chief,  kilts  and  paint  brush,  sans,  however,  the  bag- 
pipes. 

Manager  Fulton  looked  the  lad  over,  noticing  his  bright 
and  open  countenance  and  clear,  intelligent  eye. 

"You  are  all  right,"  said  the  manager,  "but,  if  you  come 
to  work  for  us  you  will  have  to  discard  the  kilts  and  paint  brush 
and  don  the  company's  uniform. 

The  boy  did  not  seem  to  like  this.  He  was  used  to  going 
bare-kneed  and  the  idea  of  a  uniform  was  suffocating.  He  went 
home  to  consult  his  father,  who  returned  with  him  to  the  office 
to  interview  the  manager. 

"I  dinna  ken  why  ye  object  to  the  kilts,"  began  the  parent, 
and  Mr.  Fulton  explained  that  it  was  not  he  who  objected.  The 
company  had  established  a  rule  requiring  the  messengers  to 
wear  their  uniform  and  there  could  be  no  appeal  from  it. 

The  lad  accepted  the  position,  doffing  the  kilts  and  paint 
brush  and  donned  the  company's  regulation  costume,  which 
created  a  metamorphosis  in  the  youth's  appearance. 

This  young  man.  Pierce  McKenzie  by  name,  climbed  up 
rapidly  and  is  now  Manager  Fulton's  able  assistant  in  the  Van- 
couver office. 

We  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Mr.  McKenzie  and  listened 
to  the  above  story  which  recalled  to  our  mind  a  Scotch  story 
which  we  were  coaxed  to  relate  and  which  is  appended. 

It  was  shortly  after  the  "war"  of  July,  1883,  that  the  writer 
was  filling  a  position  with  a  newspaper  as  reporter. 

Donald  Dinnie,  widely  known  as  the  "Scotch  giant"  had 
arrived  in  Oregon  to  give  an  exhibition  of  his  prowess  and  to 
meet  all  comers  in  the  athletic  ring. 

A  month  later  Dinnie  went  to  Salem,  the  state  capital,  to 
give  exhibitions  at  the  state  fair. 

The  assignment  to  the  fair  was  allotted  to  me  and,  during 
the  first  day  there,  I  met  the  doughty  Scotchman. 

He  was  a  grim  chap,  very  stern  and  forbidding.  It  became 
therefore  necessary  to  be  a  trifle  diplomatic  in  approaching  the 
august  person. 

Obtaining  an  introduction,  I  tendered  the  big  fellow  a 
cigar  which  he  accepted  rather  graciously  and  called  for  a 
match.     An  Oregon  match  is  of  liberal  proportions,  with  lots 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


177 


^-* 


12 


178  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

of  phosphorus  and  sulphur,  and  as  the  athlete  scratched  the 
same  on  the  usual  place,  he  gave  a  yell  Hke  a  Comanche  Indian 
and  jumped  three  feet  in  the  air. 

When  he  aHghted  on  terra  firma,  he  fiercely  exclaimed 
"Hoot  mon,  I  dinna  ken  I  had  no  breeks  on." 

This  remark  provoked  a  general  laugh  from  all  who  wit- 
nessed the  occurrence  and  the  story  was  written  up  for  the 
Portland  paper. 

Ten  years  elapsed  and  upon  a  visit  to  Chicago,  I  learned 
that  Donald  Dinnie  was  in  the  Windy  City  giving  exhibitions 
and  determined  to  visit  him  and  see  if  he  remembered  me. 

"Remember  you,  ye  divil?  Of  course  I  do.  How  could  I 
ever  forget  ye?  Why  it  was  ye  that  made  me  the  laughing 
stock  of  all  Scotland." 

And  the  giant  related  how  my  story  had  been  sent  to  his 
home  town,  where  it  had  been  printed  in  his  home  paper,  later 
being  copied  by  all  of  the  papers  in  Scotland,  and  he  was  ever 
being  joked  about  it. 

Donald  Dinnie,  at  the  age  of  86,  still  gives  exhibitions  of 
his  prowess  on  his  native  heath. 


"HUNKIE" 

IT  WAS  a  diminutive  chap  that  applied  to  the  manager  of  the 
Portland  office  for  a  position  on  the  messenger  force. 

"I  think,  perhaps,  it  would  be  a  pious  idea  for  you  to  go 
home,  eat,  say,  three  cows,  four  pigs,  five  barrels  of  flour,  five 
tons  of  potatoes,  and  when  you  have  done  that,  come  back  and 
I'll  put  you  on  as  a  messenger,"  jokingly  said  the  manager. 

The  boy  seemed  to  reaHze  that  he  was  being  joshed,  and, 
straightway  began  to  enumerate  his  quaHfications. 

"Yes,  I  know  I'm  small,  but  I  have  a  velocipede,  and  a 
white  horse  and  I'll  bring  'em  both  with  me,  if  you'll  gimme  a 
job,"  retorted  the  boy. 

At  the  mention  of  "velocipede"  and  "white  horse"  the 
manager  changed  his  tone  and  immediately  eschewed  the  cows, 
pigs,  etc. 

"Well,  yes,  I  think  we  can  use  you  if  you  are  going  to  bring 
along  your  bone-breaker  and  your  live  stock,  and  you  can  come 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  179 

tomorrow  and  go  to  work,"  and  the  manager  chuckled  at  his 
new  "find.*' 

"That's  Hunkie,"  said  the  new  applicant,  and  by  some 
strange  fate,  the  boy  was  known  to  the  messenger  force  by 
that  name  during  his  seven  years  with  the  company. 

"Hunkie"  was  popular  with  his  colleagues  from  the  start, 
for  every  day  he  would  ride  to  the  office  on  his  high  velocipede, 
the  little  white  horse  following  up  like  a  faithful  dog. 

In  a  week,  all  the  messengers  became  adept  riders  of  the 
high  horse,  as  well  as  of  the  white  horse,  and  "Hunkie"  was 
very  good-humored  in  lending  out  his  "go-its"  as  one  boy 
called  them. 

This  was  the  first  advent  of  a  mounted  messenger,  and  the 
shrewd  manager  made  the  most  of  it  in  advertising. 

A  picture  of  a  mounted  messenger  on  a  velocipede  and  of 
another  mounted  on  a  "milk  white  steed"  graced  the  pages  of 
the  local  paper,  with  the  name  of  the  telegraph  company,  very 
conspicuously  adorning  the  caps  of  the  messengers. 

This  idea  would  not  be  considered  worthy  of  notice  now- 
adays, but  30  years  ago  it  seemed  deserving  of  editorial  men- 
tion. 

It  was  wonderful  how  "Hunkie"  grew  and  thrived.  Each 
month,  he  seemed  to  be  taller  and  heavier,  and  he  liked  the  life 
of  a  messenger. 

Presently  the  day  of  the  "Safety"  arrived,  and  an  exchange 
of  a  velocipede  with  a  white  horse  accompaniment,  was  made 
for  a  Columbia  bicycle,  and  a  new  era  in  the  messenger  business 
had  arisen. 

Four  years  after  "Hunkie"  entered  the  messenger  force, 
at  16,  he  measured  exactly  6  feet,  and  he  weighed  160  pounds. 

Good  health,  good  appetite,  and  a  good  state  of  mind  had 
brought  about  these  results,  but  "Hunkie"  dreaded  the  day  to 
arrive  when  he  would,  perforce,  be  compelled  to  seek  some 
other  vocation. 

Already,  some  alleged  jokers  would  say  to  him  when  he 
responded  to  a  call,  "Why,  we  rang  for  a  messenger,  we  did 
not  want  a  policeman,"  and  the  heart  of  "Hunkie'*  would  grow 
sad. 

The  climax  was  reached,  and  the  last  straw  which  broke 
the  camel's  back  was  attained  when  "Hunkie"  at  19  years,  6 
feet  7  inches  tall,  and  weighing  220  pounds,  received  a  call  one 


180  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

day  from  a  Nob  Hill  residence  to  wheel  a  lo  months'  old  baby 
in  a  perambulator  for  an  airing. 

*'Hunkie"  in  course  of  his  peregrinations,  was  compelled 
to  pass  by  a  school  house,  the  pupils  of  which  were  notably 
frolicsome. 

The  jibes  and  taunts  of  the  motley  crowd  of  school  chil- 
dren was  too  much  for  "Hunkie,"  who  returned  to  the  office 
and  reluctantly  turned  in  his  badge,  quitting  the  company  after 
seven  years  of  faithful  service. 

It  now  became  a  question  what  to  do  with  "Hunkie." 

He  was,  by  far,  the  biggest  man  in  the  city,  but  although 
a  man  in  stature,  he  was  but  a  child  in  actions,  and  aspired  to 
nothing  higher  than  to  play  with  boys  not  much  more  than 
one-half  his  size.     It  was  a  singular  case. 

For  several  days  "Hunkie"  haunted  the  telegraph  office 
ready  to'  assist  whenever  he  could. 

"Do  you  see  that  horse  and  wagon  over  there  with  a  card 
tied  to  the  horse,  reading  'For  Sale?'  said  Jack  Hamlin,  the 
manager,  to  "Hunkie."  "Now,  you  go  over  there  and  find  out 
how  much  they  want  for  them,  and  perhaps  we  will  buy  it  and 
you  and  I  will  go  into  business  together." 

$ioo  it  was  found  would  buy  the  outfit  and  the  sale  was 
speedily  accomplished  and  the  horse  and  wagon  took  its  place 
in  front  of  the  telegraph  office. 

"Now,  then,"  said  Jack  Hamlin,  "you  are  big,  very,  very 
big,  and  you  must  capitalize  your  size.  Everybody  knows  you, 
and  if  you  go  into  business  everybody  who  knows  you  will  pat- 
ronize you,  and  many  too,  will  give  you  their  patronage  who 
are  not  acquainted  with  you,  for  you  look  good  to  them." 

"Now,  here  is  the  proposition :  I  will  stake  you  to  this 
horse  and  wagon,  buy  you  $25  worth  of  assorted  fruit  at  the 
wholesaler's,  and  you  will  go  out  and  sell  the  fruit,  and  we  will 
divvy  the  proceeds.  But,  remember,  you  must  never  put  up 
your  horse  and  wagon  till  everything  is  sold." 

As  this  arrangement  would  bring  "Hunkie"  prominently 
before  the  public,  which  was  distasteful  to  him  in  the  extreme, 
the  young  giant  did  not  think  much  of  it,  but  he  realized  that 
something  had  to  be  done. 

A  visit  to  the  produce  house  resulted  in  obtaining  some 
good  bargains.  Jack  Hamlin  giving  the  selling  price,  which,  if 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH 


181 


1886 


09 


1 


/ 


^Z-'Z^i 


182  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

all  sold,  would  double  the  amount  of     the     investment,     and 
"Hunkie"  started  out  on  his  new  business  enterprise. 

There  was,  once  upon  a  time,  a  lady,  who  was  reduced  from 
affluence  to  poverty,  and  all  that  she  had  left  in  the  world  was 
a  donkey,  go-cart  and  a  quantity  of  potatoes,  and  these  she  was 
supposed  to  hawk  in  the  streets. 

She  was  very  proud,  and  she  made  up  her  mind  that  she 
would  begin  her  business  in  the  outskirts  of  her  city. 

Reaching  a  sequestered  spot,  the  lady  ejaculated  in  a  very 
weak  tone.  "Potatoes,  potatoes,  potatoes,"  and  then  quickly 
exclaimed,  "Oh,  my!  I  wonder  if  anyone  heard  me?" 

This  was  about  the  same  kind  of  style  that  "Hunkie"  be- 
gan his  new  business  career,  but  later  in  the  day  he  had  loaded 
the  wagon  with  messengers,  ex-messengers,  all  of  whom  were 
ready  boosters  for  the  new  merchant. 

Midnight  arrived,  and  tired  and  hoarse,  "Hunkie"  retired 
for  the  night,  showing  up  bright  and  early  next  morning. 

"Hello,  partner,  how  did  you  make  out  yesterday?"  was 
Jack  Hamlin's  salutation  to  "Hunkie." 

"Well,  I  got  a  lot  of  money,  but  I  don't  know  how  much 
I  have  got,"  replied  the  partner. 

"Well,  we  will  count  it  and  see,"  retorted  Hamlin,  who  pro- 
ceeded to  count  the  money  dumped  before  him. 

"Well,  I'll  be  jiggered  if  there  isn't  $52.50.  You  have  done 
well,  and  here's  $13.75  ^^^  y<^^  ^^^  $i3-75  ^^r  me,  and  $25  to  go 
back  into  the  business  to  buy  new  stock." 

Thirteen  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents  looked  like  a  good 
day's  work  for  "Hunkie"  and  another  visit  to  the  produce  mar- 
ket ensued  and  a  similar  day  of  hawking  by  '^Hunkie"  took 
place. 

"Hunkie"  was  already  getting  to  be  known  as  one  of  the 
characters  of  the  city  and  pictures  of  him  with  sundry  messen- 
gers aboard  the  wagon  appeared  in  the  daily  papers,  all  of 
which  was  water  on  his  business  wheels. 

For  three  weeks,  "Hunkie"  continued  at  his  vocation,  sel- 
dom bringing  in  less  than  $50  to  represent  his  day's  work. 

He  had  now  amassed  about  $200  as  his  share  of  the  profits 
in  the  partnership,  and  he  seemed  to  think  he  had  found  the 
calling  of  his  life,  but  you  can  never  tell. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  183 

"I  say,  Mr.  Hamlin,"  said  "Hunkie"  one  day,  "my  mother 
says  she  thinks  I  am  a  fool  to  have  a  partner  who  doesn't  do 
anything,  and  I  do  all  the  work  and  have  to  give  up  one-half 
the  profits." 

"I  don't  know  but  what  your  mother  is  right,"  replied  Ham- 
lin, "and  I  won't  insist  on  this  partnership  arrangement.  Just 
pay  for  the  rig  and  "go  to  it." 

A  transfer  was  made  and  "Hunkie's"  voice  was  heard  at  his 
usual  rounds,  but  somehow  he  grew  slack  in  his  business  meth- 
ods. He  did  not  get  around  as  early  in  the  morning,  neither  did 
he  remain  out  as  late.  His  fruit  was  not  as  carefully  selected 
and  there  was  a  diminishing  enthusiasm  observable,  and  just  15 
days  later  "Hunkie"  sold  the  rig  and  quit  the  business. 

He  was  all  right  when  he  worked  for  others,  but  it  was  so 
different  when  he  labored  for  himself,  which,  alas,  is  the  expe- 
rience of  better  boys  than  "Hunkie." 

Years  passed  by.  "Hunkie,"  never  known  by  any  other 
name,  grew  to  manhood.  His  great  height  and  weight  was  a 
detriment  instead  of  a  blessing  to  him. 

He  became  a  'longshoreman,  finally,  and  his  prodigious 
strength  served  him  in  this  field  of  labor. 

Later  on  the  Klondike  excitement  occurred  and  "Hunkie" 
was  one  of  the  first  to  brave  the  rigors  and  privations  of  the 
frozen  north  in  quest  of  gold. 

He  found  it,  and  in  abundance,  and  it  was  away  up  in  the 
Arctic  circle  that  his  splendid  physique  was  at  last  recognized 
as  his  greatest  blessing,  bringing  with  it  abundance  of  the  cov- 
eted treasures  of  Alaska. 

"Hunkie"  is  now  living  on  his  fine  ranch  in  Sonoma  county, 
California,  surrounded  with  all  the  comforts  of  life,  but  he  will 
travel  100  miles  to  talk  with  somebody  who  knew  him  when 
he  was  No.  23  on  the  messenger  force. 


IT  is  the  shortest  word  in  the  English  language,  but  oh,  how 
sadly  abused! 

The  selfish,  the  arrogant,  the  dominating  spirit  use  the 
little  word  in  vain. 

It  is  not  a  pleasant  word  to  hear  too  often,  and  it  surely 
grates  on  one's  ears. 


184  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

The  proud  man  uses  it  too  frequently,  and  here  it  sometimes 
occurs  that  pride  comes  before  a  fall. 

There  is  a  little  parable  extant,  which  illustrates  the  fallacy 
of  using  the  word  "I"  inadvisedly. 

Once  upon  a  time,  two  geese  inhabited  a  pond  remote  from 
civilization.  They  had  occupied  this  lake  for  several  seasons, 
and  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  Johnny  bullfrog,  who  also 
was  a  denizen  of  the  lake. 

A  quaint  friendship  arose  between  this  little  animal  and  the 
geese,  and  the  three  were  inseparable  companions. 

Food  was  growing  a  little  scarce  at  the  pond  for  the  geese, 
and,  one  night,  the  frog  overheard  the  geese  say  that  they  must 
move  their  habitation  to  some  more  promising  place. 

"What  will  become  of  me  when  you  leave?"  exclaimed  the 
frog,  in  much  sorrow.  "I'll  be  very  lonesome  and  life  won't  be 
worth  the  living.  Can't  you  take  me  with  you  when  you  go 
away?" 

The  geese  talked  it  over  between  themselves,  but  could  not 
figure  out  how  they  could  ever  get  their  friend,  the  bullfrog,  to 
their  new  habitat,  some  20  miles  distant. 

"We  can't  carry  you  in  our  bills,  and  you'd  slip  off  our  backs, 
and  we  cannot  see  any  other  way  out  of  it  than  to  come  and  visit 
you  occasionally." 

The  bullfrog  was  inconsolable,  but  he  was  a  smart  frog,  and 
he  put  his  thinking  cap  on. 

He  greeted  the  geese  next  morning  with  a  broad  grin;  he 
had  solved  the  problem. 

"Here  it  is,  my  friends  :  You  see  this  reed ;  well,  each  of  you 
catch  hold  at  either  end  and  leave  a  space  of  six  inches  for  me 
in  the  middle.  While  you  are  flying  up  in  the  sky,  I  will  be 
holding  on  to  the  stick  with  my  mouth,  and  that's  all  there  is 
to  it." 

The  geese  complimented  the  frog  on  his  sagacity  and 
straightway  proceeded  to  demonstrate  the  idea,  which  proved  to 
be  a  great  success. 

The  next  morning,  at  an  early  hour,  the  trio  started  out  on 
their  journey.  Away  up  in  the  sky  they  went,  over  hill  and 
valley,  mountain  and  vale. 

Presently  they  reached  a  little  village  over  which  they  flew, 
high  in  the  air. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  185 


Ce^xc&go 


al-fOrlYScc^ 


'^■^       ^^Sf^^^fsu 


186  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

Two  farmers  were  out  on  the  field,  when  their  attention 
was  attracted  by  the  novel  sight. 

"Would  you  look  at  that?"  said  one  of  the  farmers.  "Ain't 
it  a  queer  sight!  It  certainly  shows  the  cunning  of  the  birds  to 
accomplish  a  feat  like  this,  and  I  am  wondering  who  it  was  that 
thought  of  such  a  scheme?" 

"I !"  exclaimed  the  frog,  and  down  he  came  kerchunk. 

Moral — Let  others  blow  your  horn;  it  is  bad  form  for  you 
to  do  it. 


"AFTER  LIFE'S  FITFUL  FEVER" 

4  4  O  TAG  his  nibs  ?"  queried  Fred  B.  Moxon,  with  a  quick  jerk 
1^  of  his  thumb  in  the  direction  of  the  door,  near  which  sat 
a  newly  arrived  stranger. 

This  homely  piece  of  slang  was  addressed  to  me.  It  was  an 
expression  much  in  use  in  the  '70's  and  meant  as  much  as  "Who 
is  your  friend  over  there?"  or  "Who  is  he,  anyway?" 

The  stranger  was  a  youthful  looking  man,  prematurely  bald, 
and  bearing  evidence  of  dissipation. 

"Operator?"  asked  Moxon,  addressing  the  newcomer. 

"Yes,"  was  the  laconic  reply. 

"Star?"  continued  the  questioner. 

"Better'n  that,"  came  the  response. 

"Name?"  persisted  Mox. 

"M-i-l-l-a-r,"  spelled  out  the  stranger,  perceptibly  empha- 
sizing the  letter  "a." 

"Hungry?"  continued  the  inquisitor. 

"Yes,  hungry  nuf  to  eat  a  slice  out  of  a  raw  dog,"  was  the 
somewhat  fierce  reply. 

"Thirst,  too?"  ventured  Moxon,  but  quickly  added,  "there  is 
lots  of  nice  juicy  Mississippi  water  over  there  in  the  faucet." 

After  undergoing  a  few  more  interrogatories,  Millar  was  in- 
vited to  partake  of  our  midnight  banquet  at  Sprague  &  Butler's, 
where  "ham  and"  were  the  chief  delicacies. 

Millar  certainly  proved  that  he  was  hungry,  but  the  inner 
man  being  appeased  he  was  a  trifle  more  sociable. 

It  was  plain  to  be  seen  that  he  had  a  big  load  of  self-pity 
on  board  when  he  began  telling  that  he  was  born  on  Friday  and 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  187 

also  on  the  13th  of  the  month  and  that  he  was  the  most  unlucky 
fellow  on  earth.  Everything  always  went  wrong  with  him  and 
he  was  persecuted  by  chief  operator  and  manager  alike. 

"There's  nothing  wrong  with  you  at  all,  then?"  was  the 
next  question  propounded  by  Moxom,  and  this  rather  staggered 
Millar. 

"I  try  to  do  the  best  I  can,  but  my  star  is  an  unlucky  one 
and  there  seems  to  be  no  use  in  bucking  against  it,"  was  the 
reply. 

There  was  an  extra  bed  down  at  the  Olive  Street  Hotel,  our 
hostelry,  which  was  generally  occupied  by  Bob  Irwin,  then 
known  all  over  the  country  as  "Canada's  fastest  man,"  and  this 
was  assigned  to  Millar  as  a  temporary  abiding  place. 

We  interviewed  Chief  Operator  Cummings  the  following  day 
in  Millar's  behalf,  but  that  functionary  was  unmoved  by  our 
pleadings  and  the  "unlucky"  stranger  was  forced  to  accept  a 
temporary  position  with  a  railroad  company. 

It  was  ascertained  that  a  love  for  Hquor  was  Millar's  chief 
drawback,  and  to  that  fact,  and  not  to  the  innocent  stars  could 
be  attributed  his  much  vaunted  "ill  luck." 

Charlie  Hammond  was  manager  for  the  Atlantic  &  Pacific 
Telegraph  Company,  a  most  generous  and  competent  person,  and 
yielding  to  our  importunities,  Millar  was  given  employment  in 
his  office. 

George  E.  Millar,  notwithstanding  his  frailties,  was  a  man 
of  much  promise  and  character.  He  possessed  a  fine  personality 
and  was  endowed  with  qualifications  to  render  him  popular 
with  the  masses. 

He  resolved  to  quit  drinking,  and,  in  company  with  Hank 
Cowan,  another  well-known  fighter  of  red  liquor  joined  the 
Order  of  Good  Templars. 

A  few  months  of  strict  sobriety  worked  wonders  for  both 
men,  but  alas !  one  unfortunate  day  Hank  Cowan  met  some  old 
cronies,  who  did  not  like  the  way  he  was  acting  and  enticed  him 
to  take  a  drink,  which  settled  him.  Millar  protested  with  his 
whilom  friend,  but  the  latter  said  that  it  was  "really  too  hard  to 
be  good,"  and  Cowan  repaired  to  Chicago. 

Time  passed  on  and  changes  were  made.  On  account  of 
events  over  which  we  had  no  control,  Fred  B.  Moxon  went  South, 
where  he  died  a  martyr  the  following  year.  I  went  to  Omaha, 
Millar,  too,  coming  West  a  few  months  later. 


188  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

When  he  passed  through  Omaha  on  his  way  to  the  far-off 
Nevada,  George  E.  Millar  was  as  fine  a  specimen  of  manhood  as 
could  be  found. 

As  he  dropped  drink,  he  also  forgot  all  about  his  unlucky 
star  and  the  rest  of  that  foolishness.  He  was  now  out  seeking 
his  fortune,  believing  the  fickle  goddes  could  be  wooed  and  won 
more  effectually  in  a  sparsely  settled  community.  He  was  deep- 
ly in  earnest,  and,  knowing  his  ability,  only  the  best  of  good 
things  were  expected  of  him. 

A  year  or  so  later  found  Millar  in  the  city  of  San  Francisco, 
where  he  had  secured  employment  as  traveling  salesman  for  a 
large  importing  china  and  glassware  establishment. 

For  twenty  years  George  E.  Millar  continued  in  the  employ 
of  this  firm  as  traveling  salesman,  and  no  knight  of  the  grip  was 
as  well  known  on  the  Pacific  Coast  as  he.  Always  courted  and 
feted,  he  made  money  for  his  house  and  reputation  for  himself. 

The  influence  for  riotousness  was  strong  in  California  and 
Arizona,  and  Millar,  not  strong  enough  in  his  own  power,  yield- 
ed to  the  seductive  voice  of  the  tempter  and  fell  from  grace.  So 
great  was  his  popularity  and  so  much  did  his  firm  think  of  him 
that  again  and  again  were  his  peccadilloes  overlooked,  only  to 
find  the  unfortunate  man  more  perverse  than  ever. 

The  end  finally  came  and  Millar  was  discharged,  and,  as  is 
generally  the  result,  in  such  cases,  he  quit  penniless  and  aban- 
doned by  his  former  friends  and  associates. 

In  his  distress,  his  mind  went  back  to  the  friend  of  his  youth, 
and  one  day  a  telegram  was  handed  me  to  meet  him  at  the 
steamer  dock  on  its  arrival,  the  said  steamer  bearing  Millar,  who 
was  coming  north  to  try  his  fortune  again. 

He  was  surely  a  much  changed  man.  Again  was  he  down 
on  his  luck,  attributing  his  misfortune  to  his  unlucky  star  and 
the  unlucky  day  of  the  week  and  month  in  which  he  was  born.  He 
was  again  carrying  a  great  load  of  self  pity,  and  would  assert 
that  he  was  all  right,  that  there  was  nothing  the  matter  with 
him,  but  the  other  fellow  was  entirely  the  one  at  fault. 

Employment  was  secured  for  him,  but  to  no  avail,  his  money 
going  to  buy  liquor  and  giving  little  attention  to  his  business. 

Things  grew  worse  daily.  He  had  gone  the  rounds  of  bor- 
rowing and  his  clothes  were  in  tatters.  He  accepted  any  offer 
of  employment  which  would  buy  him  whiskey,  and  his  downfall 
was  swift. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


189 


1886 


^^lfZ. 


xC^%-^^>i 


9: 


190  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

In  lucid  moments  he  would  work  as  a  messenger  in  a  dis- 
trict messenger  oftice,  and  he  became  a  famiHar  figure  about  the 
city. 

Several  insane  notions  seized  the  man,  but  there  was  method 
in  his  madness,  which  is  generally  the  case  in  like  incidents.  He 
would  place  himself  in  the  way  of  a  passing  car  or  other  vehicle, 
suffer  to  be  knocked  down  and  trampled  upon,  and  then  sue  for 
damages  or  effect  a  compromise. 

Three  times  was  this  attempted,  the  first  instance  working 
satisfactorily,  but  the  third  proved  fatal. 

Covered  with  bruises  and  sustaining  injuries  which  deprived 
him  of  hearing  and  sight,  Millar  was  taken  to  the  county  hos- 
pital in  a  critical  state.  Learning  of  his  condition,  I  went  to 
visit  him.  The  nurse  said  it  was  no  use  visiting  him,  as  he  could 
neither  see  nor  hear  and  there  was  no  way  to  communicate 
with  him. 

Millar  had  been  a  first-class  operator,  and  often  during  our 
St.  Louis  days  had  we  gone  to  church  and  to  the  theatres  to- 
gether and  during  sermon  or  entertainment  we  would  grasp 
hands  and  telegraph  to  each  other,  using  the  Morse  code  with  the 
Phillips  abbreviations. 

Remembering  this,  I  seized  the  injured  man  by  his  hand  and 
ticked  off  in  telegraph  alphabet,  "Hello,  Geo,  u  kw  me?"  I  was 
asking  if  he  knew  me. 

Instantly  the  reply  came  back,  "Yes,  Jef,  I  know  you  and  am 
mighty  glad  to  have  you  here.  I  want  some  tobacco  and  a  drink 
badly." 

The  tobacco  was  sent  for,  and,  taking  a  mighty  chew,  a  fus- 
illade of  tobacco  juice  began,  much  to  the  distress  of  the  nurse, 
who  now  arrived  upon  the  scene. 

I  informed  him  of  the  situation  as  regards  the  tobacco  by 
"telegraphy"  and  after  much  pleading  induced  him  to  give  it  up. 

Millar  was  a  constant  reader  of  the  daily  papers,  and,  not 
withstanding  his  weakened  condition,  he  insisted  upon  having  the 
daily  news  read  to  him. 

Now  comes  the  strange  part  of  my  story. 

Accident  bereft  me  of  sight  some  years  ago,  and  I  had  to 
ask  my  escort  to  read  to  me.  Millar  could  neither  see  nor  hear. 
As  regards  myself,  I  could  not  see,  but  Millar  and  I  could 
telegraph.  My  escort  could  see  and  hear,  but  could  not  telegraph, 
so  he  read  the  headlines  to  me  and  in  turn  I  would  transmh 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH  191 

them  by  human  feeling  to  Millar,  who  would  "wire"  back  his 
approval  and  thanks. 

Several  days  passed  by  and  daily  journeys  were  made  to  the 
hospital,  where  the  day's  doings  were  served  to  Millar  in  the 
only  way  he  could  receive  intelligence,  but  the  patient  was 
growing  weaker  hourly. 

One  morning  there  came  a  hurry-up  call  from  the  hospital. 
"He's  dying!"  said  the  nurse. 

Arriving  at  the  hospital,  I  took  Millar's  hand  as  usual  in 
mine  and  saluted  him  with  "Good  morning." 

Slowly  came  the  response  from  the  wasted  fingers. 

"I'm  going,  Jef,  I'm  gg  home,  Sa  gd  bye  to  my  old  friends  for 
me.     Gd  bye." 

There  was  a  rattling  in  the  throat,  a  deep  sigh,  and  all  was 
over  and  the  spirit  of  George  E.  Millar  had  passed  on. 


A  POST  MORTEM  NOTE 

THERE  was  an  unusually  bright  and  inteUigent  lot  of  young 
fellows  employed  by  the  O.  R.  &  N.  Company  in  the  early 
'8o's. 

They  came  out  from  Kansas  and  Missouri  with  C.  H.  Pres- 
cott,  and  they  were  the  chaps  who  broke  the  ground,  so  to 
speak,  for  the  present  generation. 

The  railroad  office  was  away  down  on  the  corner  of  Front 
and  D  Streets,  and  every  room  in  that  large  building  was  occu- 
pied. 

There  was  one  young  man,  named  George  Gamble,  who 
hailed  from  California,  about  whom  I  wish  to  relate  a  little  story. 
Gamble  was  quite  an  extravagant  young  man,  and  his  salary  of 
$ioo  per  was  not  sufficient  to  support  him,  and  "Uncle  Moses,"  a 
money  lender,  was  called  upon  to  help  him  out.  Moses  was  an 
accommodating  individual,  particularly  if  the  regulation  lo  per 
cent  commission  was  forthcoming."  And  so  it  was  that  Gamble 
paid  regularly  $io  a  month  interest  to  Moses  on  a  loan  of  $ioo. 

This  state  of  affairs  went  on  for  several  months,  when  one 
day  Gamble  rushed  into  the  money  lender's  office,  apparently  in 
great  haste.  "Here's  my  regular  note  for  $ioo,  properly  signed 
and  endorsed.     I  am  in  a  big  hurry,  so  get  busy,  give  me  the 


192  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

money,  so  I  can  beat  it  back  to  my  desk,"  was  the  little  speech 
made  by  Gamble. 

Moses  carefully  adjusted  his  spectacles,  scrutinized  the  sig- 
nature, amount  and  endorsement,  paid  over  $90  to  his  cHent, 
advising  him  not  to  spend  it  all  in  one  place. 

Thirty  days  elapsed  and  George  Gamble  failed  to  put  in  an 
appearance  at  the  money  lender's  office,  and  Uncle  Moses  re- 
paired to  the  railroad  office  to  interview  the  truant  cHent.  He 
had  to  pass  by  a  long  row  of  smiling  clerks,  many  of  whom  knew 
how  it  was  themselves.  Up  the  line  he  went  till  he  landed  in 
front  of  Gamble's  desk,  where  the  latter  sat,  placid  and  imper- 
turbable. 

"George  Gamble,  vy  you  don't  coom  over  and  pay  your  note 
due  yesterday?"  began  Moses. 

"Come  off,"  cried  Gamble.  "That  note  is  not  due;  in  fact, 
it  has  many  years  to  run." 

"Veil,  here's  the  note  and  it  is  dated  31  days  ago,"  returned 
the  money  lender,  slapping  the  note  on  the  table. 

"Read  it,"  remarked  the  young  clerk,  and  Moses,  wiping  his 
glasses  and  carefully  adjusting  them  to  his  nose,  began  reading: 

"100.00.  Portland,  Ore.,  July  i,  1882. 

"Thirty  days  after  death,  I  promise  to  pay  Uncle  Moses  one 
hundred  dollars,  etc. 

"(Signed)     GEORGE  GAMBLE." 

"There,"  said  the  joker,  "thirty  days  after  death,  and  you  see 
I  am  still  here  and  I  hope  to  be  here  for  many  years  to  come." 

Protestations  ensued,  but  Gamble  was  obdurate,  and  Moses 
went  away  disconsolately. 

The  costly  joke  had  the  moral  effect  of  breaking  up  the  Shy- 
lock  system. 

To  his  credit,  be  it  said,  that  Gamble  later  on  fell  heir  to  a 
fortune  and  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  settle  up  in  full  with 
Uncle  Moses,  the  money  lender. 


AN  HOUR  WITH  AN  OLD  TIMER 

THERE  is  not  a  finer  man  in  the  telegraph  business  today,  or 
any  other  day,  than  J.  M.  Maddox,  superintendent  of  the 
American  District  Telegraph,  with  headquarters    at    San 
Francisco: 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


193 


MjiwAUkee 

>  1686 


(A 


(7\ 


d^-ci^-X^z^ 


^^riA^  (P- 6UJU. 


nAA^ 


°9i 


^^t--2^t-^>^_^ 


4>^e/ 


yi07?icAe^,^ 


o^X^on^c-cC^^ 


13 


194  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

We  visited  Mr.  Maddox  for  an  hour  recently  and,  of  course, 
we  fell  to  relating  our  experiences  in  the  old  St.  Louis  office. 

"Do  you  remember  Top?"  he  asked.  "Of  course  you  do. 
He  was  an  oddity  and  had  his  day.  A.  E.  Vantyne  is  still  wire 
man  in  St.  Louis.  I  wonder  if  he  plays  as  much  billiards  as 
he  used  to  do?  Van  was  a  good  fellow.  Then  there  is  Bill 
Manley,  not  quite  as  stout  or  rugged  as  when  you  knew  him,  but 
hale  and  hearty.  Joe  Mcllvane  is  still  working  at  the  key  and 
possesses  a  fine  tenor  voice,  which  he  puts  to  good  use.  Paul 
Murphy  is  still  working  in  *A'  office,  but  Mike  TuUy  has  been 
pensioned  and  is  on  the  retired  list.  Poor  old  Mike,  he  used  to 
tell  me  of  the  pranks  you  used  to  play  on  him  away  back  there  in 
the  Centennial  year.  Belle  Wise?  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  when 
she  was  the  only  lady  operator  in  St.  Louis.  She,  too,  is  on  the 
retired  Hst.  Rudolph  Bohle,  well,  my  story  is  about  him,  and 
here  it  is : 

"Some  years  ago,  we  were  going  to  open  up  a  new  branch 
office  and  Rudolph  came  with  me  to  help  find  a  location.  We 
were  out,  I  think,  about  No.  231  Twenty-first  street,  when,  all 
of  a  sudden,  Bohle  stopped  and,  pointing  his  finger  at  a  building- 
hard  by,  ejaculated,  "There,  I  think,  is  where  the  first  'A.  M.' 
office  was  located,  and  that  was  in  1867,  ^^^^  i^  I  ^.m  not  mistaken 
Mollie  Hunt  was  the  operator."     , 

Now,  you  know  that  in  every  office  there  is  the  "office  idol," 
and  Mollie  Hunt  was  the  idol  of  St.  Louis  and  at  that  time  was 
not  more  than  19  years  old,  but  this  would  make  her  appear  to 
be  more  than  fifty. 

Of  course,  I  could  not  afiford  to  let  her  rest  without  having 
some  fun,  so  I  invited  Bohle  and  MoUie  to  lunch  the  next  day. 

During  lunch,  the  conversation  turned  upon  the  old  "A.  M." 
office,  and  I  told  her  that  Rudolph  asserted  that  she  was  the  first 
operator  and  that  the  period  was  A.  D.  1867,  which  would  nat- 
urally enough  make  her  out  as  having  passed  the  half  century 
mark. 

Know  Frank  Steel?  Well,  rather;  do  you  remember  the 
telegram  he  sent  Jay  Gould  one  Christmas  day?  Frank  was  in 
Deming,  New  Mexico,  and  I  was  in  St.  Louis,  and  it  was  I  who 
copied  the  message  as  Steel  sent  it.  The  message  was  sent 
"collect"  and  ran  as  follows : 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  195 

"Silver  City,  New  Mexico, 
via  Deming,  New  Mexico,  December  25,  1883. 

"To  Jay  Gould,  New  York : 

".Christmas  gifts  and  greetings,  by  gum. 

"(Signed)  :     FRANK  STEEL,  Operator." 

A  few  hours  later  a  service  message  came  back,  reading  as 
follows : 

"To  Silver  City,  N.  M.,  via  Deming,  N.  M. : 

"Collect  there  yours  today,  Gould,  signed  Steel,  payment  re- 
fused. 

(Signed) :     NEW  YORK  OFFICE." 

I  could  talk  St.  Louis  to  you  all  day,  but  I  am  due  at  the 
train  in  thirty  minutes,  and  will  have  to  "beat  it." 
It  was  a  very  pleasantly  spent  hour.     Come  again. 


HE  NEVER  CAME  BACK 

WHILE  the  writer  was  on  a  long  journey  recently  he  was 
often  entertained  by  his  old  friends  at  their  commercial 
clubs  or  other  hospitable  resorts,  and  an  evening  of  gen- 
uine enjoyment  was  always  sure  to  ensue. 

At  Ashland,  Oregon,  Frank  Routledge,  the  genial  manager 
of  the  Western  Union  Telegraph  Company,  tendered  a  smoker, 
at  which  were  present  some  thirty  telegraph  and  ex-telegraph 
men,  all  glad  to  get  together  for  an  evening. 

Story-telling  was  in  order,  and  as  most  of  the  guests  present 
had  traveled  a  good  deal  in  their  time,  the  tales  told  covered 
every  known  topic. 

"I'd  like  to  know  something  about  'Bogy',"  exclaimed  George 
Eubanks,  an  erstwhile  telegraph  man  and  now  a  banker  of  Ash- 
land. "I  have  heard  so  much  about  'Bogy's'  great  ability,  but 
have  never  heard  it  corroborated.  Can  anyone  present  tell  me 
if  it  is  really  so  that  he  could  copy  fifty  words  behind,  all  right?" 

"Bogy"  was  a  character  whose  real  name  was  Henry  Bo- 
gardus,  and  he  was  one  of  those  itinerant  operators  who  are 
never  content  to  remain  in  any  one  place  more  than  a  week. 
He  made  annual  pilgrimages  to  the  Pacific  Coast,  and  in  his 


196  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

peregrinations  would  become  acquainted  with  most  every  rail- 
road operator  on  the  roads  that  he  traversed.  "Bogy"  had  a 
way  of  convincing  these  humble  knights  of  the  key  that  he  was 
a  most  extraordinary  operator,  which  impression  assisted  him 
materially  in  evading  the  interstate  commerce  bill. 

It  was  up  to  the  writer  to  tell  a  story  about  "Bogy,"  as  he 
had  seen  him  later  than  any  of  the  rest  of  the  assemblage. 

About  the  year  1893,  "Bogy"  arrived  in  Portland,  and 
straightway  appealed  to  the  telegraph  manager  for  a  loan  of 
$1,  which  was  speedily  forthcoming,  for  nobody  could  refuse 
"Bogy." 

An  hour  or  so  later  he  repaired  to  the  operating  room,  where 
he  sat  down  to  the  Walla  Walla  wire,  proceeding  to  get  off  busi- 
ness on  the  double  quick. 

"Who  sent  for  you  and  what's  your  name?"  queried  the  chief 
operator. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  young  fellow.  I'm  'Bogy,'  and  I  refer 
you  to  your  manager,"  and  the  imperturbable  artist  proceeded 
sending  to  Walla  Walla. 

The  manager  informed  the  chief  that  "Bogy"  was  all  right, 
that  if  he  did  no  good  he  would  do  no  harm,  and  to  let  him  con- 
tinue his  work. 

"Bogy"  labored  all  day  and  evening  and  clear  up  into  the 
night,  only  stopping  when  there  was  nothing  left  for  him  to  do. 

The  soft  side  of  a  bench  was  a  tempting  bed  for  this  weary 
traveler,  and,  as  he  Hked  to  sleep  near  the  tick  of  the  telegraph 
instruments,  permission  was  granted  him  to  take  the  bench  into 
the  battery  room. 

Several  days  slipped  by,  "Bogy"  working  night  and  day.  He 
certainly  enjoyed  working;  it  was  a  pastime  with  him. 

Saturday  came,  and  with  it  the  usual  pay-day,  and  "Bogy" 
received  his  emoluments  with  the  rest  of  the  men. 

"I  want  you  on  at  6:00  tonight,"  said  the  chief  operator; 
"you  will  take  Associated  Press  news." 

"I'll  be  there  when  the  clock  strikes  6  and  I'm  going  to  show 
you  something  in  the  line  of  telegraphing  the  like  of  which  has 
never  been  performed  here  before,"  and  "Bogy"  assumed  a  very 
important  air. 

He  w^as  on  hand  promptly  and  sat  down  to  the  San  Fran- 
cisco wire,  where  Billy  Williamson  was  displaying  his  musical 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  197 


^  1886 


198  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

Morse.     It  was  coming  very  fast,  but  beautiful  as  an  opera  to 
listen  to. 

Picking  up  the  manifold  sheets,  "Bogy"  discovered  the  car- 
bons were  not  straight  and  he  began  to  adjust  them,  San  Fran- 
cisco sending  right  along. 

"I  say,"  began  the  night  chief,  "when  are  you  going  to  start 
in  to  copy?     You  are  now  lOO  words  behind." 

"Cease  from  annoying  me ;  I  often  copy  300  and  400  words 
behind.  Now  just  wait  till  I  locate  my  stylus  and  I'll  show  you 
what  no  other  man  can  do,"  and  "Bogy"  began  a  search  for  the 
missing  article. 

Williamson  had  now  sent  two  full  sheets  and  the  night  chief 
was  very  nervous,  fearing  an  unlooked  for  denouement,  but 
"Bogy"  was  impassive. 

The  missing  stylus  was  at  last  found  and  "he"  squared  him- 
self for  his  grand  feat,  much  to  the  relief  of  the  very  much  ex- 
cited night  chief.  Fully  400  words  had  now  been  sent,  but 
"Bogy"  looked  wise. 

"I  say,  my  boy,"  addressing  the  night  chief,  "I'm  going  out  for 
a  few  minutes,  but  let  him  send  just  the  same.  I'll  keep  it  all  in 
my  head  till  I  get  back,  and  when  I  return  you  will  see  some- 
thing in  the  way  of  telegraphing  that  you  never  dreamed  of 
before." 

Saying  this  "Bogy"  went  out  into  the  dark  and — never  re- 
turned. 


"KNIFIN'  DE  DOUGH" 

IN  the  earlier  days  of  Oregon  the  State  Fair  at  Salem  was  the 
great  event  of  the  Fall's  doings,  and  countryman  and  mer- 
chant alike  contributed  by  their  presence  to  make  the  Fair  a 
success.  It  was  a  week  when  the  old  pioneer,  who  lived  in  the 
Grand  Ronde  Valley,  would  expect  to  meet  his  former  'neigh- 
bors in  the  East,  who,  perchance,  located  in  Yamhill  County,  and, 
railroads  being  scarce,  old  Bob  and  Florrie  would  be  hitched  to 
the  prairie  schooner  that  bore  them  across  the  plains  years  be- 
fore, to  participate  in  the  annual  gathering  in  September  at 
Salem. 

More  people  came  from  Portland  in  those  days  than  at  pres 
ent,  notwithstanding  the  increased  population. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  199 

There  were  no  bridges  across  the  Willamette  at  Portland, 
and  the  ferryboat  handled  with  ease  all  the  travel  between  the 
East  and  West  Sides. 

Two  brothers  were  the  proprietors  of  one  of  these  ferry- 
boats, and  were  the  husbands  and  fathers  of  two  families, who  in- 
dulgently gave  over  the  proceeds  of  one  day's  collection  to  their 
wives  and  children  to  spend  as  they  wished  in  a  day's  outing  at 
Salem.  Thursday  was  the  day  generally  selected  and  every 
member  of  both  families,  excepting  the  husbands,  took  the  early 
train  for  the  State  Fair. 

On  one  of  these  occasions,  along  about  1882,  or  '83,  the 
members  of  both  families  were  a  little  slow  in  getting  started, 
and  Captain  Robinson  brought  the  previous  day's  collection,  a 
good  sized  canvas  bag  full  of  silver  and  some  gold  pieces  also,  to 
the  train,  where  he  handed  it  to  the  mothers  for  distribution 
among  the  flock. 

"How  will  we  proceed  to  divide  the  money,"  was  asked. 

**Why,  open  up  the  bag  and  take  out  a  dollar  and  I'll  do  the 
same,"  which  plan  was  agreed  upon. 

"Here's  four  bits  for  you  and  here's  four  bits  for  me.  Now, 
here's  a  dollar  for  you  and  here's  a  dollar  for  me,  and  here's  two 
bits  for  you  and  here's  two  bits  for  me."  Just  then  one  of  the 
youngsters  pulled  on  his  mother's  skirt,  and  down  tumbled  the 
coin,  necessitating  a  new  division. 

The  money  was  put  back  into  the  bag  and  the  same  system 
started  over  again,  only  to  be  found  impracticable. 

Several  gold  pieces  gleamed  in  the  bag,  one  being  a  double 
"sawbuck,"  as  Dixey  fantastically  described  it. 

There  appeared  to  be  no  end  to  the  disputes  arising,  when 
Conductor  Stroud  was  appealed  to  for  some  of  his  wisdom  in 
aiding  a  settlement. 

The  conductor  had  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  eye  when  he  sug- 
gested that  he  would  be  fair  to  both  sides,  but  they  must  agree 
not  to  appeal  from  his  method  of  adjustment,  which  was  readily 
consented  to. 

Taking  the  bag  in  his  hands,  Mr.  Stroud  tied  up  the  open- 
ing, then  beginning  in  the  middle  he  worked  one  half  of  the 
coins,  as  nearly  as  could  be  guessed,  to  each  end,  which  left  a 
space  in  the  middle  of  the  bag,  around  which  he  securely  tied  a 
string,  thus  making  two  compartments  of  the  bag. 

"Now,  we  will  toss  up  a  'slug'  and  see  who  has  first  choice." 


200  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

This  was  harmoniously  done  and  producing  a  huge  pocket 
knife,  the  bag  was  cut  in  two  at  the  point  where  the  string  was 
tied. 

"This  is  what  I  call  'knifin'  de  dough',"  laughed  the  jolly 
conductor. 

Each  one  of  the  bairns  was  allowed  to  sHp  his  or  her  hand 
in  the  bag  and  take  out  all  it  would  hold. 

"I  wish  I  had  a  hand  like  a  ham,"  cried  Gordon. 

"Yes,  and  I  picked  out  the  double  eagle,"  triumphantly  ex- 
claimed Miss  Dixie,  and  all  were  made  happy. 

Semi-annual  dividends  by  our  street  car  systems  usually 
bring  gladness  to  the  already  bloated  stockholders,  but  they 
never  can  experience  the  exquisite  joy  that  these  two  families 
had  in  "knifin  de  dough"  on  their  annual  pilgrimage  to  the  State 
Fair. 


"PANTSEY"  PATTERSON 

IT  was  about  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago  that  a  rather  curious 
individual,  known  to  the  fraternity  as  "Pantsey"  Patterson, 
filled  various  positions  as  operator,  chief  operator  and  man- 
ager in  the  Middle  West. 

Patterson  received  his  soubriquet  on  account  of  a  peculiar 
lit  of  his  trousers,  which  seemed  to  have  been  cut  by  a  circular 
saw. 

"Pantsey"  Patterson  had  no  especial  ability  to  entitle  him 
to  the  position  of  chief  operator  or  manager,  but  on  account  of 
his  obsequiousness  to  his  superior  oificials  and  a  certain  adroit- 
ness in  bringing  himself  to  their  notice,  he  had  built  himself  up. 

He  was  past  master  in  the  art  of  blandishment  to  his  super- 
intendent, and  so  artfully  did  he  flatter  that  official's  vanity, 
always  assuming  an  air  of  the  greatest  sincerity,  that  it  won  him 
many  positions  to  which  he  was  not  entitled. 

Like  many  another  individual,  his  true  cliaracter  would 
uncover  itself;  he  would  lose  his  position  and  start  out  again, 
adopting  the  same  tactics,  to  secure  employment  elsewhere. 

"Pantsey"  was  disHked  by  operators  and  other  employes 
who  could  plainly  peer  through  his  disguise. 

It  was  after  leaving  a  prominent  office  in  the  Middle  West 
that  he  started  for  the  Far  West  to  again  seek  his  fortune. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


201 


^  G/^-^^r^^^-fC/^^  J 


rT^lO^O— ^^ 


202      '  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

On  the  Pacific  Coast  he  met  a  young  man  named  Jack  Hig- 
bee,  who  secured  him  a  position  as  manager  at  one  of  Southern 
CaHfornia's  most  beautiful  towns. 

Jack  Higbee  was  manager  of  the  telegraph  company  in  a 
flourishing  coast  city.  He  had  unwittingly  incurred  the  dis- 
pleasure of  one  of  the  officials  of  his  company,  and  realizing  that 
the  sword  of  Damocles  was  hanging  over  his  head,  as  it  were, 
determined  to  enter  the  service  of  a  competitive  company  in  the 
same  city. 

Jack  was  popular  aHke  with  his  employes  and  the  business 
men  of  the  city. 

The  latter  were  pleased  to  give  him  a  boost  by  turning  over 
their  business  to  his  company,  one  firm  in  particular,  Stickle- 
meyer  Bros.,  volunteering  their  entire  telegraphing,  which 
amounted  to  $1,500  per  month. 

Six  months  later  the  company  which  he  represented  were 
doing  the  business  of  the  city,  while  the  other  company  had  cut 
their  operating  force  one-half  on  account  of  the  falling  off  of 
business. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Higbee  received  the  following 
letter  from  the  superintendent: 

"I  have  it  that  the  other  company  is  going  to  send  to  your 
city  the  best  man,  they  figure,  they  have  on  the  Coast.  His 
name  is  Patterson  and  I  tell  you  this  so  you  can  prepare  for  a 
vigorous  campaign." 

"Let  him  come,"  quoth  Higbee.     *'We  will  see." 

A  week  later  "Pantsey"  Patterson  arrived  and  the  first  stop 
he  made  in  the  city  was  at  Jack  Pligbee's  office. 

"Come  out  and  irrigate,"  invited  Patterson,  which  was  ac- 
cepted. 

Artfully  did  Patterson  play  his  cards.  He  complimented 
Higbee  on  the  size  of  his  force  and  the  amount  of  business  that 
he  imagined  the  company  was  doing;  he  professed  fealty  and 
friendship,  stoutly  maintaining  that  come  what  may  the  twain 
would  always  be  friends. 

After  many  such  protestations  and  some  libations  the  two 
men  parted  to  meet  again  the  following  day. 

"Better  watch  out  for  that  fellow,  Jack,"  said  John  Gray. 
"He  will  do  you  up  sure." 

"Thank  you,"  repHed  Jack,  as  he  was  getting  used  to  this 
kind  of  advice  from  others. 


Of  the  TiELEGtlAPH  203 

Daily  did  Patterson  visit  Higbee  at  his  office  and  together 
did  they  visit  a  neighboring  refectory. 

"Forevirarned  is  forearmed"  and  Jack  met  v^^ith  diplomacy 
the  craftiness  of  his  competitor. 

"I  made  $20.00  today,"  remarked  Patterson,  "and  I  want  you 


C.  H.  GAUNT 


to  come  and  take  a  champagne  dinner  with  me  tomorrow.  Will 
you  do  it?" 

"Sure,  I'll  go  you,"  replied  Jack. 

There  was  an  anxious  look  in  "Pantsey"  Patterson's  eyes 
and  he  seemed  to  be  full  of  expectancy,  as  he  and  Jack  Higbee 
strolled  out  to  the  cafe  for  their  afternoon  banquet. 

Wine  flowed  freely  and  seemed  to  warm  the  cockles  of  the 


204  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

hearts  of  both  men.  Stories  were  told,  Patterson  striving  hard 
by  unctuous  flattery  to  win  the  confidence  of  his  companion; 
Jack  diplomatically  agreeing  with  his  adversary  on  all  questions. 

*'Now,  Jack,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  something,"  began  Pat- 
terson. "I  want  to  know  how  it  happens  that  I  can  get  no  busi- 
ness from  Sticklemeyer  Bros.  I've  been  over  to  see  them  and  I 
have  talked  with  them  all,  but  I  cannot  obtain  their  consent  to 
give  me  any  of  their  business.  Why,  even  messages  you  cannot 
handle  are  given  to  you  and  you  turn  them  over  to  us.  I  cannot 
even  get  them  to  allow  me  to  handle  those  telegrams.  How  do 
vou  get  that  cinch  on  them?" 

Higbee  smiled  and  stated  that  he  would  be  divulging  an 
office  secret,  and  another  bottle  of  champagne  was  ordered  by 
Patterson. 

Uncorking  his  vials  of  flattery,  he  deftly  instilled  more  and 
more  into  the  ears  of  his  listener,  watching  the  effects  of  each 
dose. 

"Come,  now,  I  will  never  say  a  word,  and  I  really  think  you 
ought  to  tell  me  what  I  want  to  know,"  pleaded  Patterson,  fixing 
his  hypnotic  gaze  on  Higbee. 

With  equal  adroitness.  Jack  said,  "Well,  I  will  tell  you  since 
you  promise  me  faithfully  not  to  give  the  snap  away." 

Higbee  then  went  on  to  state  that  he  gave  the  firm  ot 
Sticklemeyer  Bros,  a  monthly  rebate  of  15  per  cent  on  all  mes- 
sages filed  with  his  company,  stating  that  that  was  the  reason  of 
his  lead  pipe  cinch. 

"I  see,  I  see,"  quickly  remarked  Patterson,  as  he  hastily 
arose,  looking  at  his  watch.  "I  will  have  to  leave  you  now,  as  it 
is  time  to  get  back  to  my  office.     I  will  see  you  tomorrow." 

Jack  Higbee  gave  vent  to  a  long  whistle  as  he  viewed  Pat- 
terson's hasty  retreat.  "I  think  I  gave  him  all  the  information 
he  was  looking  for,  and  now  I  will  have  to  write  my  superin- 
tendent an  explanation." 

Repairing  to  his  office  Higbee  indited  the  following  letter  to 
his  superintendent : 

"Patterson  was  around  looking  for  informati(5n  today  and 
besieged  me  with  questions  and  champagne.  I  gave  him  infor- 
mation, probably  more  than  was  due  him.  I  told  him  we  secured 
Sticklemeyer  Bros.'s  busiryess  by  giving  them  a  15  per  cent  re- 
bate. You  know  how  much  truth  there  is  in  this  statement,  but 
I  was  compelled  to  meet  duplicity  by  diplomacy.     I  am  sending 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


205 


S^%. 


^^  oral.  ^ 


206  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

you  this  letter  so  you  will  understand  the  situation,  when  the 
matter  comes  up  to  you  from  other  quarters." 

The  following  morning  Higbee  received  a  telegram  from  his 
superintendent,  who  stated  that  Patterson  had  wired  his  superior 
officer  that  the  competitive  company  was  giving  Sticklemeyer 
Bros.  15  per  cent  rebate  on  all  messages  filed  with  them,  and 
asking  him,  Higbee,  if  such  was  the  case.  Jack's  reply  was : 
"Patterson  is  talking  through  his  hat ;  nothing  in  it ;  get  my  let- 
ter written  yesterday;  explanatory." 

The  following  morning  Jack  received  another  telegram  from 
his  superintendent,  reading: 

"This  is  the  best  joke  of  the  season." 

It  only  remains  to  be  told  that  "Pantsey"  Patterson  was 
severely  reprimanded  by  his  superintendent,  who  cautioned  him 
not  to  be  a  dupe.  "Pantsey"  had  met  his  match,  but  he  and 
Jack 'Higbee  never  again  spoke  as  they  passed  by. 


MASSALLTOFF 

THE  CHICAGO  HERALD  once  offered  a  prize  to  the  re- 
porter who  could  ascertain  how  many  ways  the  word  "Kal- 
somining"  was  spelled  among  the  habitues  of  Darktown  in 
that  city.  The  reporter  who  won  the  prize  found  there  were  385 
different  ways  of  spelling  given  to  the  word  among  the  Ethiopian 
wielders  of  the  pail  and  brush. 

The  Hebrew  word,  "Massalltoff"  is  used  very  much  in  tele- 
grams and  cablegrams  by  our  Hebrew  brothers,  when  they  de- 
sire to  felicitate  or  congratulate  one  another  upon  some  social 
event  occurring,  such  as  an  engagement,  birth  or  marriage,  and 
this  practice  is  in  much  vogue,  as  is  well  known  among  telegraph 
people. 

When  some  prominent  Jew  is  married,  it  often  requires  a 
special  wire  to  handle  the  rush  of  congratulatory  messages,  and 
nine  out  of  every  ten  will  use  the  word  "Massalltoff,"  but  the 
word  is  spelled  as  widely  different  as  the  other  word,  "Kalsomin- 
ing,"  is  done  by  the  Africans. 

Recently,  in  San  Francisco,  a  Jewish  wedding  took  place  and 
more  than  800  messages  were  received. 

A  special  wire  to  the  groom's  house  was  installed  and  an 
operator  was  sent  to  receive  the  messages. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


207 


The  young  operator  found  by  actual  count,  that  there  were 
254  different  ways  of  spelling  the  word,  each  section  of  the 
world  having  its  own  way.  We  are  sorry  that  our  space  will 
not  allow  us  to  print  the  many  different  spellings  of  the  word  so 
familiar  to  the  telegraph  operator. 


A  COSTLY  JOKE. 

IT  was  some  little  time  after  the  completion  of  the  cable  across 
the  Atlantic  that  B.  F.  Woodward,  then  manager  of  the  Den- 
ver W.  U.  Telegraph  essayed  to  show  his  men  in  the  Denver 
office  upon  what  very  familiar  footing  he  was  with  Queen  Vic- 


1.  N.  MILLEli,  Ju. 


R.  H.  MILLEK 


toria  by  sending  her  a  cablegram  of  100  words  or  so,  felicitating 
her  upon  her  birthday. 

He  evidently  expected  to  file  the  cablegram  in  the  receiving 
room,  have  it  commented  upon  and  then  placed  on  file  for 
transmission  on  the  Kansas  City  hook,  there  also  to  be  seen, 
read  and  talked  over  by  the  operators,  when  he  would  drop  in 
and  unobserved  would  cancel  it  before  it  was  sent.  He  would 
in  this  way,  acquire  a  reputation  accorded  to  no  other  citizen 
of  Denver,  and  it  would  cost  him  nothing. 

But  "only  the  unexpected  happens." 


208  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

The  cablegram  was  written,  filed,  commented  upon  by  the 
clerks,  turned  into  the  operating  room,  where  it  was  inspected 
by  the  operators,  talked  over,  and  transmitted  to  Kansas  City, 
where  it  was  sent  upon  wings  of  lightning  to  London  ten  min- 
utes before  Woodward  arrived  upon  the  scene  to  cancel  it. 

His  chagrin  and  dismay  was  great,  which  later  on  became 
genuine  grief,  when  he  was  called  on  to  put  up  something  like 
$125  for  his  fun.  And  here  the  relator  paused  and  smiled  at 
the  idiosyncracies  of  the  human  mind. 

The  foregoing  anecdote  was  sequelized  twenty  years  later 
by  Jack  Stronach,  then  manager  of  the  Postal  Telegraph,  at 
Portland,  Oregon. 

Jack  had  been  working  for  the  Postal  in  Washington 
building  new  lines  and  had  done  excellent  work  and  was  re- 
warded by  being  made  manager  of  the  Portland  office. 

The  business  people  of  Washington  and  Oregon  hailed 
with  delight  the  advent  of  a  new  telegraph  company  and  fav- 
ored them  with  their  patronage. 

Business  came  to  the  new  company  without  solicitation 
and  was  well  handled  by  them.  Elmer  Mallory,  the  assistant 
manager,  was  extremely  zealous  in  his  company's  interests  and 
carefully  watched  its  growth.  It  was  his  ambition  to  show  the 
daily  receipts  to  be  $200  a  day,  and  that  was  the  mark  he  en- 
deavored to  reach. 

Stronach  was  spurred  by  Mallory's  keen  interest  and  be- 
stirred himself  somewhat  to  reach  the  desired  goal. 

One  night  about  10  o'clock,  Stronach  dropped  into  the  of- 
fice to  find  Mallory  quite  expectant. 

*T  need  just' $19  of  having  my  $200  to3ay,  and  I  wish  that 
we  could  make  this  the  banner  day,"  remarked  Mallory. 

"You  will  have  it  sure,"  returned  Stronach,  as  he  disap- 
peared out  of  the  door. 

A  few  minutes  later  a  messenger  brought  in  a  cablegram 
addressed  to  "Rennie,  Hongkong,"  which  contained  13  words. 
The  rate  to  Hongkong  in  those  days  was  something  like  $2.50 
a  word. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  Stronach  put  his  head  in  the  door, 
to  be  greeted  by  the  smiling  face  of  Elmer  Mallory. 

"Hurrah,  Jack,  we  have  made  it  and  have  a  few  dollars  to 
spare,"  exclaimed  the  assistant  to  his  chief,  as  he  explained  the 
arrival  of  the  Hongkong  cable. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


^^i>iair 


*^*  Tg 


t^fljjer^ 


-'Sgi*  -y^  *"V 


14 


210  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

"Good,"   said   Stronach,  "but   where  is   the  cable?" 

"Oh,  it  has  gone,"  replied  Mallory. 

"Holy  smoke,  here's  a  go,"  ejaculated  the  manager,  as  he 
flew  upstairs,  taking  three  steps  at  a  bound. 

He  found  the  cablegram  had  been  sent  and  quickly  he  tried 
to  stop  it  at  Vancouver,  but  that  office  stated  that  it  had  been 
sent  to  Montreal  five  minutes  previous.  Pursuing  his  inquiries, 
it  was  ascertained  the  cablegram  had  been  sent  to  London, 
where  it  was  stopped  and  later  on  canceled. 

This  was  probably  the  first,  the  last  and  the  only  time  that 
John  Stronach  tried  to  increase  his  company's  receipts  at  his 
own  expense. 


ENTERPRISE 

By  Elmer  E.  Mallory 

WOULD  you  like  to  hear  how  I  slipped  one  over  on  the 
Western  Union,  once  upon  a  time?  Well,  here  is  the 
story : 

It  was  during  the  flood  of  1890,  in  the  month  of  February. 
The  Willamette  river  was  on  a  rampage,  carrying  down  log 
piles,  trees,  farm  houses,  telegraph  poles  and  everything  in  its 
wake.  The  streets  of  Porland  were  covered  with  water,  and 
gasoline  launches  and  even  steam  tugs  came  up  and  down  the 
principal  streets. 

All  cables  across  the  river  were  broken  and  both  telegraph 
companies'  wires  were  badly  down  and  demoralized.  The  W. 
U.  did  not  have  a  wire  out  of  its  office  and  the  Postal  had  but 
one  wire  south  to  Woodburn,  and  they  were  all  down  south  of 
that  point. 

Much  activity  was  displayed  by  the  Postal  company  to 
re-establish  their  Hues  and  I  was  detailed  to  go  up  the  line  to 
combat  the  situation.  Arriving  at  Woodburn  I  found  we  were 
badly  down  south,  but  found  the  W.  U.  had  a  wire  to  Roseburg, 
and,  inasmuch  as  they  had  no  wire  from  Woodburn  to  Port- 
land, this  southern  piece  of  wire  was  inactive  and  doing  nobody 
any  good. 

A  bright  idea  struck  me  and  calling  up  the  manager  at 
Portland  I  quickly  told  him  the  possibilities. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  211 

He  was  quick  to  see  the  point  and  two  hours  later  he  ar- 
rived on  a  velocipede  handcar  with  2oo  messages  destined  to 
San  Francisco. 

Now,  it  happened  that  I  knew  Andy  Cook,  an  operator  of 
international  fame,  was  at  Roseburg.  He  had  come  over  from 
Vancouver  and  was  destined  for  CaHfornia,  but  could  not  get 
any  further  than  Roseburg  owing  to  his  limited  means. 

I  called  up  Roseburg  and  asked  George  Estes  to  send  for 
Cook,  who  happened  to  be  right  in  the  depot. 

Cook  came  to  the  key  and  quickly  and  discreetly  I  told  him 
my  plan  and  asked  him  if  he  could  handle  200  messages  for  San 
Francisco, 

"Sure,   Mike,"  laconically  replied  Andy,  and   I   started  them 
along,  getting  them  all  in  to  him  in  three  hours. 

It  was  ascertained  that  the  Postal  was  O.  K.  south  of  Rose- 
burg, and  Andy  Cook  made  short  work  of  getting  in  the  200 
messages  to  San  Francisco.  Of  course  I  was  working  in  Wood- 
burn  from  the  depot  office,  but  the  agent  was  a  "ham"  and  was 
easily  beguiled  into  believing  that  I  was  a  W.  U.  man  as  well  as 
did  Estes  at  Roseburg,  for  really  both  men  were  too  busy  at- 
tending to  their  duties  to  give  us  much  attention. 

A  messenger  was  dispatched  to  Portland  for  more  busi- 
ness, which  was  sent  in  the  same  way  to  Andy  Cook  at  Rose- 
burg, who  in  turn  relayed  them  to  San  Francisco. 

Three  days  later  the  Postal  repaired  the  trouble  between 
Woodburn  and  Roseburg  and  the  W.  U.  wire  between  those 
points  was  abandoned  by  us. 

We  carefully  concealed  our  "enterprise"  in  this  case,  and 
the  W.  U.  never  found  out  about  it,  and  if  they  did  they  were 
smooth  enough  to  keep  still. 

Andy  Cook  rode  to  San  Francisco  in  a  Pullman  and  was 
assigned  to  a  position  in  that  office  as  a  reward  for  the  part 
he  took  in  "putting  one  over"  on  the  Western  Union. 


OREGONIAN  STORY 

THE  OREGONIAN  is  a  great  paper  now,  but  thirty  years  ago, 
it  was  more  of  a  frontier  sheet.     Here  is  a  sample  of  "ye 
local's"  work: 
"John   Crouch,   lineman    for   the   Western  Union,   went   to 
Roseburg  last  night  on  business." 


212  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

The  following  day  appeared  another  intensely  interesting 
item,  as  follows : 

"John  Crouch,  lineman  for  the  Western  Union,  returned 
from  Roseburg  this  morning,  where  he  has  been  on  business. 
John  is  *0.  K.' " 

The  fact  of  the  matter  was  that  we  sent  John  down  to  Rice's 
Hill  to  reset  some  poles.     Only  this  and  nothing  more. 

On  another  occasion,  the  Oregonian  printed  the  following 
explanation.  It  was  under  date  of  July  5th,  the  day  succeeding 
the  Nation's  Natal  Day : 

"The  paucity  of  our  news  this  morning  is  due  to  the  fact 
that  the  wires  were  not  down,  but  drunk.'' 


A  FIRST-CLASS  MAN 

IT  was  twenty-five  years  ago  and  the  Colonel  had  come  and 
gone,  acceding  after  much  scrutiny  and  investigation,  to  allow 
P office  an  addition  of  four  first-class  operators. 

The  next  question  was  where  to  get  the  four  first-class  oper- 
ators, for  it  had  been  definitely  decided  between  the  manager  and 
the  chief  operator  that  only  the  creme  de  la  creme  of  the  pro- 
fession would  be  invited  to  join  the  staff. 

Chicago  office  was  looked  over  carefully  and  Henry  C.  May- 
nard,  chief  operator,  was  asked  to  assist  in  selecting  the  four 
men. 

A  trip  clear  across  the  continent  and  first-class  salary,  with 
a  pleasant  office  to  work  in  and  cheery  people  for  associates, 
were  the  inducements  and  speedily  the  requisite  number  signed 
up  and  prepared  to  start. 

Three  days  later  a  tall  young  man,  thin,  almost  to  attenua- 
tion, entered  the  office.  He  was  dressed  in  a  Prince  Albert 
double  breasted  coat,  ice  cream  trousers,  red  socks,  tooth-pick 
shoes,  very  gaudy  necktie  and  a  high  hat,  known  at  that  par- 
ticular period  as  the  "Blaine"  hat.  His  lank  frame  and  the 
stovepipe  hat  made  him  appear  several  inches  taller  than  he 
really  was.  His  face,  however,  beamed  with  intelHgence  and 
good  humor. 

He  quickly  called  for  the  manager,  to  whom  he  introduced 
himself. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  213 

"My  name  is  Archibald  Grover  and  I  am  the  first  of  the 
bunch  that  Hank  Maynard  sent  out  here  to  go  to  work.  I  am 
in  a  little  trouble,  owing  to  some  foolishness  I  indulged  in  com- 
ing here  on  the  train.  You  think,  perhaps,  that  I  am  well 
dressed,  and  so  I  am,  on  the  outside,  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth 
(and  here  the  young  man  blushed),  I  am  naked  on  the  inside," 
and  unbuttoning  his  Prince  Albert  coat,  he  disclosed  the  fact 
that  that  garment  alone  protected  him  from  the  Oregon  weather. 
A  dickey  and  the  big  necktie  helped  to  conceal  the  young  man's 
nakedness. 

He  was  certainly  a  funny  looking  sight,  and  he  laughed  very 
heartily  at  his  own  appearance. 

"You  see,  I  need  a  little  assistance  and  $20  will  straighten 
me  out  all  right.     Will  you  loan  it  to  me?" 

Who  could  withstand  a  plea  like  this,  and  the  .required  $20 
was  handed  over  to  the  new  operator. 

An  hour  later  Archibald  returned  to  the  office  to  go  to  work 
and  was  assigned  one  of  the  heaviest  wires  in  the  office. 

Superintendent  Lamb,  on  his  way  home,  dropped  into  the 
office  and  inquired  if  any  of  the  new  operators  had  arrived.  The 
manager  repHed  that  one  only  had  shown  up. 

"Is  he  a  first-class  man?"  queried  the  superintendent. 

"Oh,  yes,"  was  the  reply. 

"How  do  you  know?"  testily  came  from  the  official. 

"Why,  because  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  strike  me  for 
$20,"  responded  the  manager. 

"Of  course  you  did  not  give  it  to  him,"  was  the  next  remark. 

"Of  course  I  did,  for  I  knew  that  any  man  who  had  the 
cheek  to  ask  for  $20  on  such  short  acquaintance  must  be  a  first- 
class  man." 

And  he  was  right.  Archibald  Grover  was  wonderful  as  an 
operator  and  excelled  in  music  and  painting. 

His  talents  won  him  distinction  and  he  married  one  of  the 
wealthy  belles  of  San  Francisco. 

He  now  lives  in  Southern  California,  under  the  shade  of  his 
own  fig  tree  and  orange  grove,  and  he  will  laugh  till  the  tears 
roll  down  his  cheeks  when  he  is  asked  to  tell  how  he  once  dem- 
onstrated he  was  a  first-class  operator  to  the  tune  of  a  twenty 
dollar  piece,  without  even  taking  a  message. 


214  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

SEATTLE  TRUE  TO  "TOTEM-POLE" 

IN  the  fall  of  1907,  there  was  a  preponderance  of  telegraph 
operators  all  over  the  country,  and  positions  were,  in  conse- 
quence, very  scarce. 

Charles  Pogenpohl,  who  had  been  employed  as  an  operator 
in  Texas,  determined  to  seek  a  position  in  the  far  Northwest  and 
one  day  landed  in  Seattle,  Washington. 

The  chief  operator,  a  wag  by  the  way,  informed  the  Texan 
that  he  had  operators  to  "throw  at  dogs,"  and  incidentally  asked 
his  name. 

Pogenpohl  gave  in  his  name,  which  seemed  to  tickle  the 
chief. 

"I  guess  that  I'll  give  you  a  trial.  Come  around  at  5  P.  M. 
and  go  to  work." 

The  end  of  the  month  came,  and  Pogenpohl  received  his 
check,  but  to  his  astonishment  he  discovered  that  the  voucher 
was  made  payable  to  ''Charles  Totempole,"  and  he  asked  to  have 
it  corrected. 

*'Why,"  exclaimed  the  chief,  "I  understood  you  to  say  your 
name  was  Totempole,'  and  I  thought  that  any  man  who  would 
flag  under  the  name  of  'Totempole'  was  entitled  to  a  job  in  the 
Seattle  office." 


BEAU  BRUMMEL 

THE  operators  employed  in  the  Denver  office  about  15  years 
ago,  will  remember  a  strange  character,  who  floated  in  and 
tarried  but  a  few  weeks,  then  disappeared  for  a  more  con- 
genial clime. 

We  will  call  his  name  Wood,  but  that  was  not  his  cognomen. 
He  was  very  deaf,  but,  like  some  other  freaks,  could  tele- 
graph just  as  well  as  the  next  one. 

Belvidere  Brooks  was  manager,  Tom  McCannon,  chief  oper- 
ator; "Old  Farmer"  Lawton,  night  chief;  W.  N.  Fashbaugh, 
wire  chief. 

Some  of  the  operators  working  in  the  Denver  office  at  this 
time  were  R.  D.  Gould,  Charles  Smith,  "Tub"  Hogan,  Dick 
Thompson,  Frank  Gargan  and  Jerry  Simpson. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  215 

Dick  Thompson  and  J  erry  Simpson  have  both  gone  on  their 
last  journey,  but  to  my  story. 

"Deafy"  Wood,  as  he  was  rather  unfeelingly  called,  was 
very  much  on  his  uppers  when  he  sailed  into  tne  Denver  office. 
He  wore  a  cap,  peakless  and  dirty,  ragged  coat,  pants  irayed  at 
the  bottom  and  torn  at  the  knees,  sans  collar,  sans  necktie,  shoes 
with  toes  protruding,  but  he  was  fat  and  healthy  looking.  . 

There  was  a  dearth  of  operators  at  this  time,  and  Wood's 
advent  was  hailed  with  delight  by  the  overworked  employes, 
who  "threw  in"  to  make  the  newcomer  more  presentable. 

Dick  Thompson  gave  him  a  pair  of  patent  leather  shoes, 
which  were  a  trifle  small  for  the  donor  to  wear;  Jerry  Simpson 
presented  him  with  a  new  hat,  and  as  he  looked  better  on  the 
top  and  at  the  feet,  it  was  thought  wise  to  let  him  work  out  the 
rest  of  his  salvation  in  his  own  way. 

Long  hours  were  the  order  of  the  day,  and  good  work  was 
performed  until  pay-day  rolled  around. 

Wood  asked  for  a  day  off,  which  was  granted. 

The  following  day  an  elegantly  attired  gentleman  entered 
the  office.  He  looked  like  a  very  distinguished  foreigner.  His 
clothes  and  make-up  were  immaculate.  A  ponderous  chain  was 
suspended  from  his  vest,  his  coat  and  trousers  were  of  the  best 
texture,  of  fashionable  cut  and  perfect  fit.  The  vest  was  made 
of  silk,  of  an  elaborate  pattern,  and  the  hat  was  a  pure  white 
fedora. 

He  had  parted  with  his  hirsute  appendage  at  a  nearby  ton- 
sorial  establishment,  which  worked  wonders  in  his  looks. 

Wood  was  complimented  upon  his  appearance,  and  it  was 
hoped  that  he  had  turned  over  a  new  leaf,  but  mortal  flesh  can 
never  be  depended  upon  in  the  wild  and  woolly  west. 

The  aristocratic  air  which  Wood  assumed  indicated  that  he 
was  to  "the  manor  born,"  and  he  seemed  a  marvel,  indeed,  to  the 
lowly  dwellers  of  this  mountain  town. 

Fifteen  days  passed  by,  and  Wood  appeared  at  the  office 
minus  his  big  watch  chain,  which  was  followed  the  next  day  by 
the  disappearance  of  his  fedora  hat.  The  latter  was  replaced  by 
his  old  tile. 

Piece  by  piece  did  the  handsome  rig  give  way  to  the  former 
rags,  and  on  the  second  pay  day  Wood  appeared  at  the  cashier's 
de3k  clad  in  the  veritable  g^arments  that  he  entered  the  office 


216  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

with  six  weeks  prior,  even  to  the  old  shoes  which  encased  his 
feet. 

Another  leave  of  absence  for  two  days  was  asked  for  and 
granted  the  queer  character,  at  the  expiration  of  which  time  he 
again  showed  up  habilitated  in  his  new  clothes,  even  to  the  pon- 
derous watch  chain  and  patent  leather  shoes. 

The  sudden  metamorphosis  did  not  startle  the  people  of 
Denver  quite  as  much  as  upon  the  former  occasion,  but  all  took 
a  quiet  notice. 

Several  days  passed  by,  and  again  did  the  procedure  of  the 
previous  month  take  place  in  the  garb  of  Wood,  only  he  parted 
with  more  of  his  raiment. 

He  appeared  at  the  threshold  of  the  operating  room  one  day 
with  just  a  pair  of  pants,  an  undershirt  and  a  pair  of  very  dis- 
reputable looking  shoes,  minus  socks. 

His  hat  was  gone,  and  he  certainly  looked  tough. 

Tom  McCannon  concluded  that  his  presence  in  the  office 
might  shock  the  modesty  of  some  of  his  visitors,  and  promptly 
"canned"  the  quaint  character  who  started  south  the  following 
day. 

It  is  believed  that  Wood  went  to  Texas,  where  he  turned 
over  a  new  leaf,  became  a  benedict,  and  for  the  past  dozen  years 
has  been  a  useful  member  of  the  little  city  which  is  his  present 
home. 

Good  luck  to  him. 


IT  PAYS  TO  STICK  TO  YOUR  POST 

IT  was  in  the  month  of  July,  in  the  late  '6o's,  that  Sancho  Pedro, 
an  old  Portuguese  sheepherder,  following  his  vocation,  drove 
his  flock  from  the  sunburned  hills  of  the  western  slope  of  the 
Sierras  to  their  lofty  summit,  thence  on  the  plateau  eastward  to 
the  State  of  Nevada. 

The  grass  was  verdant  and  plentiful  and  the  flocks  waxed 
fat. 

Up  Bloody  Canyon,  across  Mono  diggings,  loitering  near 
Mono  Lake,  thence  down  Sunshine  Valley,  they  tarried  at  the 
base  of  Del  Monte  mountain,  then  not  even  named. 

Pasturage  was  plentiful  in  this  sun-kissed  region  and  Sancho 
Pedro  determined  to  remain  in  this  vicinity  till  the  autumn  winds 
betokened  the  approach  of  winter. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  217 

Pedro  knew  all  about  the  multiplication  of  sheep,  but  was 
entirely  unacquainted  with  the  production  of  gold,  or  other  pre- 
cious metals.  He  noticed,  however,  one  day  some  lambs  gam- 
boling on  the  green  hill  and  saw  some  yellow  nuggets  which 
they  uncovered  in  their  play. 

The  Portuguese  gathered  a  pocket  full  of  the  precious  metal, 
and  before  leaving  for  the  western  slope  marked  the  spot. 

Report  of  a  gold  find  travels  with  lightning-like  rapidity,  and 
it  was  but  a  little  while  before  the  news  of  the  discovery  startled 
the  expectant  Californians  and  the  usual  rush  was  made  to  the 
new  diggings. 

It  was  getting  well  into  winter  now,  but  this  cut  no  figure 
in  the  wild  scramble  to  be  first  at  the  new  Eldorado. 

A  hegira  from  Mammoth  City  took  place;  Gold  City  also 
added  her  quota  to  the  representation,  and  from  far  and  wide 
they  came. 

A  town  sprang  up  as  if  by  magic,  tents  speedily  giving  way 
to  substantial  buildings,  even  brick  and  stone  stores  were  soon 
erected  and  the  boom  was  fairly  on. 

Much  "float"  gold  was  found  and  claims  were  bought  and 
sold,  the  transactions  going  up  into  thousands  of  dollars,  and 
the  town  of  Aurora,  Esmeralda  county,  Nevada,  became  known 
as  a  prosperous  mining  camp. 

As  usual,  whiskey,  dance  houses  and  all  kinds  of  gambling 
were  the  order  of  the  day  and  night.  It  was  no  uncommon  sight 
to  witness  a  Avoman,  richly  attired,  walk  down  the  main  street 
and  stop  in  front  of  a  curbstone  faro  game.  Opening  her  purse 
she  would  hand  a  bystander  two  $20  gold  pieces  and  ask  him 
to  play  one  on  the  ace  and  to  copper  the  jack  with  the  other. 
She  would  play  to  win  $100.  If  lucky,  she  would  tip  her  player 
liberally,  but  if  fortune  did  not  smile  on  her  she  would  give  a 
little  laugh  and  beat  her  way  further  down  the  street. 

Many  of  the  citizens  of  Aurora  were  earnest,  law-abiding 
people,  energetic  in  their  work  and  sober  in  their  habits,  but 
there  is  always  a  lawless  element  following  up  a  new  mining 
camp,  who  have  no  regard  for  life,  limb,  law  or  other  people's 
property,  and  Aurora  was  not  exempt  from  this  class  of  peace 
disturbers. 

A  daily  paper,  two  banks,  and  an  express  office  opened  up  for 
business  in  the  new  camp,  and  a  cry  went  up  for  telegraphic 
connection. 


218  AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 

The  big  telegraph  company  declined  building  in  to  this  re- 
mote camp,  but  private  capital  soon  constructed  a  line,  connect- 
ing with  the  parent  branch  at  Carson,  and  Jim  Bowditch  was 
sent  to  Aurora  to  be  the  office  manager. 

The  opening  of  the  office  was  hailed  with  delight  and  anvils 
were  fired  off  with  the  customary  enthusiasm  and  Aurora,  Ne- 
vada, was  entered  on  the  Tariff  Book. 

The  peace  of  the  community  was  broken  one  evening  by 
three  men,  mounted  on  handsome  American  horses,  and  armed 
to  the  teeth. 

Already  hilarious,  they  proceeded  to  get  gloriously  drunk 
and  began  shooting  up  the  town.  In  their  wild  madness  four 
prominent  citizens  were  killed,  and  as  many  more  seriously  in- 
jured. 

The  trio  were  finally  subdued,  and  taken  to  an  impromptu 
police  station,  and,  although  it  was  midnight,  the  justice  of  the 
peace  was  sent  for  and  the  trial  of  the  murderers  began. 

The  proof  of  the  crime  was  conclusive,  and  the  three  men 
were  condemned  to  be  hanged,  that  important  event  being  fixed 
at  an  early  date. 

Two  of  the  condemned  men  were  well  connected  in  San 
Francisco,  and  strenuous  efforts  were  made  to  save  their  necks. 
Pat  Barry,  a  noted  criminal  lawyer,  was  engaged  and  an  appeal 
was  made  to  the  Governor  to  stay  proceedings. 

Notwithstanding  all  efforts  put  forth  by  the  lawyer,  no  im- 
pression could  affect  the  Governor,  and  he  lent  a  deaf  ear  to  all 
importunities.  The  wily  attorney  employed  all  his  powers  of 
persuasion  and  pulled  all  his  wires,  but  his  work  was  fruitless. 
His  efforts  and  their  results  were  daily  conveyed  to  the  doomed 
men,  but  still  they  were  hopeful,  clinging  to  the  proverbial  straw 
and  believing  that  at  the  last  minute  the  Governor  would  weaken 
and  pardon  or  respite  them. 

The  day  for  the  execution  arrived  and  the  gallows  was  erect- 
ed. 

It  was  to  be  a  public  execution  and  saloons  and  gambling 
dens  were  closed  for  the  occasion. 

The  only  man  at  work  was  Jim  Bowditch,  who  sat  at  his 
telegraph  key,  patiently  waiting  any  word  from  Governor  Nye. 

The  hour  of  the  execution  had  been  set  for  2  o'clock  and  it 
was  now  noon. 


OP  THE  TELEGRAPH  219 

"I  believe  that  I'll  wait  till  half  past  12,  and  if  we  get  no 
word  from  the  governor,  I'll  get  some  lunch  and  then  go  see  the 
hanging,"  remarked  Jim  Bowditch  to  himself. 

At  12:30  p.  m.  Jim  Bowditch  called  up  Carson,  and  notified 
Fred  Bunce,  the  operator,  that  he  was  going  to  lunch  and  was 
informed  by  the  Carson  operator  that  he  also  would  go. 

An  hour  later  Jim  Bowditch  was  at  the  scene  of  the  pro- 
posed execution  and  precisely  at  2  p.  m.  the  three  men  were 
swung  into  eternity. 

ballying  back  to  the  office  shortly  after,  Bowditch  could 
hear  the  telegraph  "instrument  calHng  wildly :  "AU,"  "AU," 
-AU,"  -CA,"  "AU,"  "AU,"  "CA."     It  was  Carson  caUing  Aurora. 

"I,"  "I,"  "AU,"  responded  Bowditch. 

'Where  are  the  three  men?"  quickly  asked  the  Carson  op- 
erator. 

"Gone  to  blazes,"  was  the  reply. 

"Gee,  listen  to  this,  but  don't  copy  it,"  came  from  Carson. 

Then  followed  a  message  from  the  Governor  granting  a  stay 
of  proceedings  in  the  condemned  men's  case. 

"What's  to  be  done?"  cried  Bowditch,  "if  this  is  found  out 
we'll  get  the  same  fate." 

Bunce  and  Bowditch  were  friends  and  they  proceeded  to  talk 
over  the  way  of  procedure. 

"I  tell  you  what  to  do,"  said  Bunce,  "just  open  the  wire  at 
your  end  and  I'll  send  out  our  Hneman  and  inform  the  Governor 
and  Pat  Barry  that  we  could  not  get  you  on  account  of  wire 
trouble." 

The  plan  was  carried  into  execution,  Bowditch  opening  the 
line  outside  his  office  and  then  repairing  to  the  nearest  livery 
stable,  ordered  the  fastest  horse,  stating  he  was  going  out  to 
repair  the  line. 

Jim  Bowditch  followed  the  telegraph  line  for  a  mile  to  the 
north,  then,  carefully  looking  backward  to  see  if  he  was  observed, 
he  turned  sharply  to  the  west,  heading  for  the  high-peaked 
Sierras. 

A  few  days  later  horse  and  rider  arrived  in  Sonora,  Tuo- 
lumne county,  Cal.,  where  after  giving  his  horse  a  rest,  he  sent 
him  back  to  Aurora,  evidently  understanding  that  murder  could 
be  condoned,  but  horse  stealing  never. 

The  name  of  James  Bowditch  never  again  appeared  on  the 
payroll  of  any  telegraph  or  railroad  company,  and  the  true  facts 


220 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


in  the  case  never  leaked  out,  the  only  mystery  attached  to  the 
matter  being  the  disappearance  of  Jim  Bowditch,  which  has 
never,  hitherto,  been  satisfactorily  explained. 

So,  it  seems,  that  it  does  pay  to  stick  to  your  post. 


^*/^ft^ 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  221 


LOVE 
An  Indian  Legend 

THEY  lived  and  dreamed  in  silent  ages  past, 
Two  lovers  parted  through  long  bitter  years, 
And  died  in  hope.     But  fate,  still  cruel  cast 
Their  future  lots  in  far-off  different  spheres 
To  grieve  in  vain — and  Heaven  itself  was  naught — 

An  empty  joy,  for  what  is  life  at  best 
Till  with  the  thread  of  being  there  is  wrought 

A  chord  responsive  in  another  breast. 
Their  spirits  yearned  across  the  chasm  drear, 
An  answering  wish  shot  swift  from  soul  to  soul 
A  bridge  of  light  o'er  that  wide  waste  to  rear — 
An  arch  of  stars  across  the  flaming  scroll. 
They  waited  not,  nor  asked  they  God  above, 
For  time  and  space  cannot  dissever  love. 

Long  eons  pass  and  now  the  narrowing  zone 

Needs  but  one  star  to  make  the  span  complete. 
One  glowing  orb  from  out  the  living  throne 

To  bind  the  arch.     Straightway  archangels  fleet 
Sought  God  and  spake:     "See'st  thou  yon  milky  way 
Where  spirits  bold  have  bridged  the  realms  of  space? 
Have  they  Thy  will  with  wandering  spheres  to  play 

And  rob  Thy  throne,  presumptuous  pride  of  grace?' 
"Shall  I  destroy,"  said  God,  "the  works  of  love, 
I,  who  am  love?"     In  glory  bright 
Those  spirits  wept  for  joy,  around,  above, 

For  one  sweet  instant  thrilled  all  worlds  with  light. 
"The  corner  take  from  my  eternal  throne. 
The  works  of  love  abide,  and  they  alone." 


222 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


MISS  EVANGELINE  HAYES 


SONG  OF  THE  DAISIES 

By  Evangeline  Hayes 
Aged  9 

Did  you  ever  see  a  daisy 
With  a  little  yellow  eye, 

Like  a  sunbeam  shining  downward 
Reflected  from  the  sky? 


Daisies  should  teach  us  lessons 
Of  patience  which  brings  blessings, 
Of  love  which  brings  us  light, 
And  takes  away  our  night. 


OF  THE  TELEGRAPH 


223 


MISS  MABEL  MATTHEWS 

OUT  WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS 

By  Ahthur  Chapman 

Out  where  the  handclasp's  a  Httle  stronger, 
Out  where  a  smile  dwells  a  httle  longer, 

That's  where  the  West  begins. 
Out  where  the  sun's  a  Httle  brighter, 
Where  the  snow  that  falls  is  a  trifle  whiter. 
Where  the  bonds  of  home  are  a  wee  bit  tighter, 

There's  where  the  West  begins. 

Out  where  the  skies  are  a  trifle  bluer, 
Out  where  friendship's  a  little  truer. 

That's  where  the  West  begins. 
Out  where  a  fresher  breeze  is  blowing. 
Where  there's  laughter  in  every  streamlet  flowing, 
Where  there's  more  of  reaping  and  less  of  sowing. 

That's  where  the  West  begins. 

Out  where  the  world  is  in  the  making, 
Where  fewer  hearts  with  despair  are.  aching — 

That's  where  the  West  begins. 
Where  there  is  more  of  singing  and  less  of  sighing. 
Where  there  is  more  of  giving  and  less  of  buying, 
Where  a  man  makes  friends  without  half  trying. 

That's  where  the  West  begins. 


224 


AUTOGRAPHS  AND  MEMOIRS 


^a^..y^-  ^^^ 


FINIS 


